Trail
by Dark OriginVTX
Summary: Some fight for power, others for glory, one man fights for love
1. iSpy

_**Trail**_

_**Book One**_

_**Cycle of Three**_

_**By – Dark OriginVTX**_

_**Author's Note – To the Fan Fiction Universe. Anyone who recognises this story as Trail a story belonging to Videl Exumai please note that since that story was abandoned owing to her professional career I have taken it upon myself to adopt this work. I hope you will give me as much support as you can. Thank you and please don't forget to review**_

_**Prologue– iSpy**_

High Vennegoor Lucius swallowed as before him the vast steel doors began to part without consented order. Their only prompting issuing from the unified command centring from the chemical will of his thoughts and the electronic, physical command of the F–T–U–V chip implanted beneath the flesh of his left hand.

The F–T–U–V chip was a necessity for all System citizens. Implanted at the first dawn of birth, none southron born escaped _The Rite_, themselves, their very beings linked to the extreme technical centre of the System, known nought by the citizens, but known to those of true knowledge as _The Soul_. Every action was monitored; every movement scrutinised, behaviour patterns studied and recorded, so as to ensure the true safety and supreme control of The System.

The doors before Lucius opened unto stark, raw darkness, but from deep within the depths of the shadows their issued an intense, weighted energy, the very air thick with the presence of what existed beyond the gloom.

At Lucius's shoulders they settled, with the effortless grace of sky dwellers, but with a form as alien to the air as a sea dweller upon the shore. Sphere-like, flawless, the Spyfs were utterly faultless in their appearance; the only break in their metallic grey sheen stemmed from the stark pin prick of crimson which was their all-seeing oculus.

The twin Spyfs each turned their eyes upon Lucius, scrutinising his actions, studying the hidden meanings behind his posture and body language, seeking signs of rebellion and disloyalty. Each of these eyes enticed a sense of foreboding. Lucius drew in a deep, steadying breath as he prepared himself for the inspection which was soon to follow.

A Spyf, small, terrible, unnatural in its grace, drifted before Lucius, settled itself before him. Lucius physically shuddered at the presence of the machine, a reaction not lost on either of the two orbs, as they relayed this reaction back to _The Soul_.

Whispers were issued in quiet corners, corners where people believed the civilised dare not venture, where they believed,_foolishly_, the Spyfs did not spy. Whispers that these dreaded orbs watched not just with their eye, but were in possession of powers far greater. Powers greater and far more frightening than simple sight. Powers, Lucius knew, to be utterly, and inhumanly true.

Lucius drew himself up proudly as the Spyf before him drifted ever closer, turning its eye before the High Vennegoor's twins of its own. He readied his very being. He knew of the penalty of what befell any citizen who failed the S-A-T-S inspection. Lucius gritted his teeth, steeled his resolve and forced himself to fall into the chaotic depths of the Spyfs eye.

Lucius's psyche screamed, his mind, his very will smashed, shattered with the force of a battering ram. A jagged, serrated probe began to invade the chambers of his mind, streaming through memories with agonizing precision.

A cry tore from Lucius's lips, tears streamed from his eyes as the probe entered his haunted memories. Once more he was forced back, the memory, everything so vivid, the feel of emotions so real that no longer was he High Vennegoor Lucius, but he had returned once more to the agony of his youth.

_He bore no name, for no common citizen of the System bore the distinction of a title. Instead he existed simply as First Born. First Born, heart wrenched and fearful, lay curled within the corner of his frugal bed chamber. Desperately he clapped his young hands to his ears, attempting to drive away the terrible sounds of agony he could hear from she, she of whom he loved so passionately: His dearest sister. Broken, molested, pleading for the mercy of her tormentor, though, as had happened so many times before, she would not be granted such mercies._

_Rage heated within the young mans' heart, an intense, searing fury. He knew not when the impulse had come. It happened almost instinctively; saw himself as if through a dream. He felt the knife in his hand, sharp, deadly, beautiful. First Born stood outside the bedroom of his beloved sister, heard her terrible sobs, her pleas. His will steeled, he entered._

_The chamber was dark, moonlit, void of the love and affection he often felt in this room. The monster lay over her, shirt strewn, repulsive, primal. The young man's heart clenched in fury, black rage filled his soul. He stabbed over and over, the monster screamed, agony, pain evident. Blood soiled the young man, his clothes, skin, tainting the flesh of his beloved sister. He refused to relent; on and on he stabbed. Only the feel of his sister's gentle arms drew him away from the heated blood lust which had claimed him._

_Together, blood marring each of the two siblings; they held each other close, watched as before them the monster, their father died. _

After what felt like a lifetime the Spyf finally relented. Lucius staggered, weakened, willowed from mental exhaustion as he struggled to breathe.

Lucius forced himself to stand straight, knew of his duty. The two Spyfs hovered before him, ready to lead him forward into the chamber. Slowly Lucius drew the long, ornate ceremonial dagger from his waist. He straightened his carriage, steadied himself, readied his heart, his soul, and prepared himself for murder.


	2. Angel of Music

_**Angel of Music**_

He knew her as Granger: Lady Hermione Jean Granger, or so was the title used during her introduction. Harry pressed the knuckle of his work hand to his teeth, a product of nervous tension and suppressed emotion, long since accumulated through his youth, carried on into manhood.

He studied this Lady Granger with quiet caution, his shaded emerald green eyes drifting over her fine form, outlined, accentuated by the tightness of her leather cladding. Granger knew that he was admiring her physical charms; knew the gleam seen in the eyes of the sexes, both men and women, eyes wrought with lust, admiration, jealousy, knew of the stirrings which her charms evoked, deep within the depths, the loins. So was the price of beauty, a price both thankfully paid, and cursed.

Granger absently slid one of her elegant hands down the firm, shapeliness of her thigh, itself clad in fine, figure hugging leather, heightening the semblance of her form. Her gaze was slight, herself hiding a smile behind her free hand. It was a smile of satisfaction. Her instincts had been correct.

Harry was enticed by her charms, she could read that, but something was different about this one. His looks, his gazes, they weren't so much as testosterone charged adoration, more filled with heated challenge.

Eyes of jet black darkness seared into Harry, though they came not from Granger, her eyes one of intense, deep brown. No, this deep gaze came from the youngling stationed at Granger's right hand. A girl child, of youthful years, though her face held neither the delights, nor innocents of youth. She gazed towards Harry, her visage stern, intense, wrought with a fire of challenge behind the depths of her obsidian orbs.

The youngling's gaze was unceasing, herself filled with a fire so deep, so intense it was unnerving to witness such, found within one of years so youthful. Together both Granger and the girl child wore matching fingerless gloves, fashioned from beaten hide. Though where Granger's apparel radiated confidence and allure, the girl child's simple, long sleeved tunic, united with her woollen britches, did much to display a strikingly opposite personality. Harry gazed from Granger to the girl child in equal measure, pondering what could be required of him, and from so alluring a couple.

He knew little of their story, none from their own words, his understandings built upon assumptions and guesses. They went beneath the banner of Entertainers, formed as one of several traveling Drifter Trains who had crossed the plains of the Unclaimed North, to bring the beauty of wares, wonder, story and music to those of simple lives.

Harry, could still remember, remember the very first time Granger had taken to the stage of the Inn.

A black leather strip had encircled her brow that day, restraining her voluminous dark hair. Her hair rippled; tumbled down her body, possessing the look and allure of sheer silk. Clad in fine leather, at her waist was carried an exquisite artic white electric guitar. Harry could still feel it, the gentle, subtle warmth he had felt ripple through him, his breath stalled, his heartbeat a cadence within him. Granger stood seemingly transfixed in meditation before the expectant crowd.

Slowly, behind her, her youthful drummer gave a gentle tap on her trap set. At this sound so did Granger erupt into expedition. The music was so sudden and sweet that it struck not only at the beat of the heart, but so much deeper, deep to the very soul. The song, the music was an agonised, instrumental ballad, unheard in Styria since the rise of the System.

Music itself was outlawed, not crushed completely from the hearts of the world, but within System society music was only created, allowed to be, only if it conformed to legal regulations: No emotion, no feelings, just pure admiration and worship towards the System. Music such as the music Harry now heard, so heartfelt, so intense, wrought with emotions so strong, it was unbearable in its beauty. Tears brightened Harry's eyes, seeped unchallenged down his face as finally, melodically, the song ended.

The Inn erupted into a volley of applause. Offering the crowd a bow Granger turned, proceeded to the back of the stage, allowing the storytellers to take their entrance. Harry could not hold himself strong, knew he must speak with this Granger. Inside he felt a stirring, a wrench. Forcing his way through the crowd Harry sighted Granger, sat stationed upon her large Gig amplifier, absently strumming a melody. But, before he could even approach her his trek was intercepted by the presence of the largest man he had ever seen.

Tall, broad, brow paled except for a thick braid of hair formed at the base of the figures scalp, the hulking behemoth stood before Granger with the air of a sentinel. His eyes narrowed, scornful with suspicion. Harry heard a soft, trill chuckle and saw Granger place a comforting hand upon the giants shoulder.

"Easy Kingsley, let him through." The monster, Kingsley gazed at Granger, back towards Harry, then with a final, scornful farrow of brow, stepped aside to allow the young man passage. Granger's eyes rolled playfully, turning to face Harry.

"Do not mind Kingsley," her voice was strong, confident, pleasurable in its gayety. "He is a sweet heart really, believe me, there are more things to worry about than him, like coarse fingers."

She held up her slender fingers, wiggled them in expedition, showing that indeed the tips of her fingers were thick with a course, hard crusting, a result of her pleasurable labour beneath the strings of her instrument.

"Your music," Harry's voice faltered, broke, weighted beneath the sheer intensity of the emotions he felt within. "I feel things I've never felt before, when you play."

"A compliment," Granger's eyebrows raised, the tips of her mouth lifted slightly. "Music was once a way of expressing more than just simple reverence. Once, music was used to express emotions now supressed by the System. Without emotion we would be nothing more than machines."

"Emotions…?" Harry whispered feeling the intense stirrings within him once more. Granger sat down upon her Gig amplifier, gazing towards Harry through long, dark lashes. She raked him with her eyes, pressed the button to her amp. She began to play once more. The music was turned low, low enough so as not to be heard by none but them. Softly she began to sing, such a sweet, beautiful voice that Harry believed he stood within the presence, not of a mere woman, but an angel, an angel of music.

Oh how once I dreamed

I dreamed of love

I dreamed of living

How I spent my whole life dreaming

Here and now

Once was will be

Was once a dream

A dream of love

How soon we'll see

The stars change for love

The sun shines for us

All and now

Just dream of us

Granger gazed towards Harry to sight the tears in his eyes, the sheer impact of her song, the strength of her words, speaking more than any healer ever could. She smiled and offered him her hand.

"I can offer you more than just music, if you're willing to help me."

"What do you want?" questioned Harry his heart beating a fresh with renewed emotions. Gingerly Harry took her hand, allowing her to lead him to the rear of the Inn, drawn to the private meeting quarters. This chamber used only under the steepest of prices. Granger opened the door wherein their sat the youngling, eyes dark, ominous, deadly.

Harry felt a new emotion, alien, frightening: fear. He gazed from she, the youngster to Granger who smiled and offered him entrance. He set foot forward his fate sealed with a single footstep.

Now Harry sat across from Granger and the youngling. A bottle of fine liquor and three drinking vessels complimented the meeting, resting upon a small oak table between the company. Granger leaned forward, uncorked the bottle and proceeded to pour the drink to each of the bowls. Upon lifting their vessels Granger offered Harry a salute.

"Hosts first sip." Granger chimed, she and the youngling each took the first sip of the drink. Harry eyed each of them so. Once more sighting another piece of social breeding which did not comply with both the modern, nor the wayfarers of which Granger proclaimed to belong. This piece of social breeding was once common practice amidst the ancient northlands, used as a protection of the common folk from deceivers and death.

"You're no merchant." Harry breathed speaking his suspicions. Granger's smile was sly, her bright eyes sparkling.

"I see you are no fool," Granger's visage grew chill, mirthless. "Understand that I take you under the strictest confidence. Should you divulge my words to any other, I shall have no choice but to remove you from the earth."


	3. She Moves On

_**She Moves On**_

She held him endearingly; the scent of livestock and graft clung to her, as intimately as fragrant perfume would a lady of distinction. Though to Sail, this did none but heighten the appeal of his beloved Anchor.

"Speak to me, Bonnie Boy," Anchor breathed, her breath brushing intimately against the skin of his cheek, while gently so did she toy with a stray strand of his long, dark locks, winding it intimately about her first finger. "What troubles you so?"

"My dear," Sail sighed, his lips coming to tenderly kiss her brow, while his touch gently explored her supple curves. "Do you seek to oath-break me?"

"Never," Anchor drew back from him, his words issuing a wound to her heart. She gazed up at him, himself standing several inches above her, his arms kept about her close. Fondly her hands caressed the strength of his chest, laced in simple, work worn cotton, herself falling lovingly into the depths of his shaded green eyes.

"I simply wish to help you; I know you had council with the merchant lass Granger. Ever since you have worn a troubled shroud, I seek to ease your burden."

"Then know, I swore an oath never to divulge her words to another, not even you, my dearest lass. Do not trouble yourself with my burdens."

"Sail, we are one," spoke Anchor, Ginny was her name to any other than him, they each referring to the pet-names they had bestowed upon each other. "What troubles you is mine. So is the way of love."

A hand full of reeds protruded from the tie of Anchors rope belt. In drawing a number of these, Anchor proceeded to unite she and Sail's hands in a simple bond of unity and love.

"Together, you and I, remember?" so prompted Anchor, a smile brightening her work grimed visage.

"I remember," promised Sail, himself reaching to caress her cheek.

Anchor spoke determinedly.

"I shall speak with this entertainer Granger. I shall understand the weight upon your shoulders. I shall share your burden."

With a chaste kiss Anchor drew away, the reeds uniting their hands unravelling, though they each remained united in spirit. With beauty and geniality Anchor smiled, stepping from Sail's cabin, leaving him to float amidst a stormy ocean of thoughts, his heading still hazed and obscure.

The news of the merchant's arrival in Candonia undulated across the Highlands, as that of the ripples born from the disturbance of a quiet pool. Folks from across the glens began to converge upon the tiny region. Clansmen from the surrounding crofts of Acair, Fyfe and Lyall braved the mountain passes and hostel wild lands, all to glimpse the merchant's wares and wonders.

With the arrival of so many strangers to the region social conflicts and clan deviations were soon to follow. The once peaceful and welcoming region became the unfortunate venue of grievances and troubles from their neighbours. These troublesome brawlers were all but trifles, most willing to simply enjoy the hearty atmosphere of the trader's camp.

Arranged in a bright arch, festooned with drapes, awnings, streamers a colour, the trader's booths and travel huts were pitched. Amidst the simple if not uncommon items, commodities, luxuries were also to be viewed, kept purposely hidden away, displayed only at serious request, at the utmost privacy.

Harry wandered amongst the bustling crowd, eying trinkets and treats with polite interest. Many of the trader's items tempted the buyer in him, but he kept a tight grip upon both his hand and purse, which held only a little Slater. Casually he savoured an apple wandering absently amidst the crowd, in search of Ginny.

A trader caught Harry's eye from amass of patrons gathered about his booth. He was a tall, supercilious fellow, adorned in lavish finery. At his lip was worn a pencil moustache, meticulously styled, groomed to near flawlessness. Harry turned when his eye met that of the trader, unwilling to have his purse tempted, attempting to meld amidst the bustle of buyers.

"Good sir, good sir!" so called a voice from off behind Harry, who turned, not knowing if the hale was intended for himself or otherwise, sighted the trader hastening towards him. Instinctively Harry drew back, folded his arms protectively across his chest, cautious, weary. The trader smiled and offered a courtly bow.

"Is there anything you wish?" Harry questioned of the trader, his gaze stern, mistrustful.

"Sir, there is something I wish you to see," spoke the trader, his voice aloft with cheer, "If you would?"

The trader gestured towards his booth. Harry, hesitant, followed the fellow in lead. The trader brought Harry to a splendid, ornate tent. The tent was richly decorated with a number of differing strips, adorned with fabric of numerous colours. Drawing towards the entrance of the tent, so did the trader gesture for Harry to enter. Caution corrupted his manners however, himself choosing the safety of the nightly air, than the confinement of a trader's tent, where an ambush could take place far easier. With a polite nod of acquiescence the trader entered.

Moments past, Harry drummed his fingers against the exposed flesh of his arm while in waiting. It was several minutes until the trader returned. He stepped from the tent carrying a sizeable something, bound with rope, wrapped within a worn, ancient cloth. It was this item that the trader presented to Harry. The weight of the object was comfortable, weighted but un-burdensome.

"I… I have very little money in which to pay you." Harry spoke gently, though the trader shook his head in response.

"It has no price," the trader's voice was laced with slight agony. "Long has this prize rested in my possession. Though I was long told that the one who was to truly possess this prize would enter my life one day. I believe I have found that one."

Harry swallowed, looking from the package to the trader, his heart torn with indecision. Gingerly he accepted the wrapped something, feeling a solid form beneath his fingertips, beneath the bindings. The trader stroked his moustache gently as he offered Harry a gentle smile. He breathed.

"So she moves on." The feel of the traders eyes upon Harry grew weighted, as he stepped away, into the now enveloping shade of night.


	4. You Always Had Me

_**You Always Had Me**_

Harry, lost to a barrage of conflicting emotions, the strongest of which a sickening disbelief, carried his newly laden gift out of the core of the traders pitch. Away from eyes, prying and curious so did he come to rest, settled himself at the base of a great pine, itself one of a number of evergreens grown naturally amidst the outskirts of the village of Candonia.

Beneath a great tree so did Harry settle, rested upon the rim of the trail leading south, onward unto the valleys and wilderness, whispered in respect as: _The Heart_. Seated upon a downy cushion of growth and fallen needles, Harry allowed the weight of the packaged _something_, to rest upon his thighs. Gazing down at the age worn wrappings Harry swallowed; his apprehension paramount. Harry's heart began to beat, skip, heighten with anticipation and nerves. His mouth grew dry, he swallowed but with difficulty, all that was left to him was to unwrap the bindings.

Slowly, Harry began. With every knot loosened, every gentle slip of material, the majesty and horror of what lay before him was unveiled. Harry gasped, as with a gentle wisp of breeze, the air lifted the final length of cloth away, itself flitting upon the wind, exposing Harry's prize, and greatest fear: A sword.

Harry reeled, emotion, terror, fear lancing his heart as he gazed upon the splendid weapon. The blade was elfin, magnificent, thrust into a scabbard bound in black leather, itself inlayed with beautifications of rich, bright gold. The pommel was wrapped with a grip of smooth leather. Unworn, flawless, offering a comfortable grip for the wielder. Veins of bright woven silver intertwined with fine dark onyx to grasp a deep, bright sapphire settled at the height of the weapon, itself filled with streaks of streaming light.

The sword was both beautiful and terrible to behold. A crash of memories burst through Harry's internal defences, rendering tears from him as he recoiled fearfully from the fine sword, as one would a dreaded viper. He cried out, himself tossed, his sea raging. The impact of a memory struck him. Roaring his pain in agony, so did the memories return, felt the feeling of blood renew, taint his touch, unsighted but felt. Desperately Harry reached out for any kind of rescue, tossed between two worlds: a destructive, vile entity which warred with his soul and his search for peace.

He heard no words, felt only her presence, sensed her, the anchorage of herself to him.

Anchor settled herself down next to her beloved Sail, softly she caressed his brow, accustom to the terrors of which he endured, terror inflicted with the torment of the past. Lifting her voice Anchor began to sing, seeking to bring comfort to her dearest. So sweet was her melody, so heartfelt her words, that the demons which plagued her dear Sail began to find solace.

_Through all your darkness… _

_Let you find your light _

_I'm here… with you, beside you_

_Let my love guide you_

_Feel… your freedom, escape from shadows fears_

_I'm here, my love, beside you_

_To ease the pain within you_

_Oh my love… every waking moment_

_Together we shall love_

_One heart… one lifetime_

_Now and always_

_I'm here… with you beside you_

_Oh let my love guide you_

Gradually, with the caress of her gentle touch, the power of her words, Sail's soul calmed. Trembling, tearful, filled with renewed hope so did he return back, his body caught in convulsions. Sail forced composure into his self, wiping his tears forcefully from his eyes. Straightening his bearing Sail, Harry, shielded himself back behind his defences. Turning so did he come to face Ginny; his Anchor. Sail's eyes spoke more than anything he could ever say. Anchor absently smoothed the hem of her dress as Sail leaned towards her, lightly his lips found her cheek in a chaste kiss.

"Thank you." said Sail, a light smile touched her lips. Fondly Anchor caressed her cheek, turned towards him. Sail rested his hand lightly upon hers. They spoke not for many a moment each of them lost in the comfort of each other.

Finally Sail broke the silence.

"Did you speak with Lady Granger?"

Slowly, Anchor nodded.

"Very polite lass," Anchor mused, the chaos of his torment seemingly lost to differing talk. As was always the way, never would he speak of what troubled him, all she could do was comfort him, offer hope to his soul.

"She even addressed me as Lady. I understand now, she is not a merchant is she?"

Despairingly Sail shook his head, his visage shading with memory; his fingers absently caressed the body of the sword which he had pulled back to his being.

"No, she and her band resist the advancement of The System. She seeks people to fight for their cause."

Her agreement was laboured, troubled as was his own. Sail's voice willowed beneath emotion, an emotion he was ashamed to express.

"You are afraid." stated Anchor, speaking of the emotion he found so terrible. Sail nodded burying his head into his hands, shame evident.

"You need not be ashamed of fear," comforted Anchor, speaking to Sail through a veil of his unruly hair. "You need not feel unmanned by such a natural emotion. I would be terrified of you if you felt no fear. It proves you are human."

"Human…?" Harry sighed, drawing aside his wealth of hair bringing his gaze to her. In that moment Sail felt closer to Anchor than he ever had for any other, taking her hands in his, softly he kissed her palms in a tender gesture of affection. A light smile played over each of them.

"I am not leaving with her," pledged Sail his tone strong, certain. "I belong here; I want a home, wee ones. I seek to find peace. But mostly, I want you."

Ginny smiled, a warm, slight smile. Slowly she drew in close to her Sail, her kiss gentle, laced with intimate promise, a kiss he returned with tenderness.

"You always had me," so stated Anchor, resting herself into Sail's embrace. Together they each cast their gaze towards the heavens, hands enveloped together as they watched the dawning of Starfall.


	5. Fear of the Dark

Fear of the Dark

Bars of moonlight issued through rents within the structures mortar, faults cast from the erosion of time. The pearlescent moon's gentle touch softly stirred a slumbering Sail, lifting him from the tormented depths of dreams.

In tenderness and need, so did Sail stretch his arm across the fabric bound, straw filled mattress of his bed, seeking the warmth and feel of his bed mate. His eyes opened, once sleepily, now concerned as beneath the touch of his fingertips, Sail felt, not the soft warmth of Anchor, instead coarse cotton and uneven straw was all he felt.

Slowly he sat up, the wool and fur coverlets slipping slightly from his frame. So was unveiled a form wrought with the agonies and marring of a thousand scars, themselves the testaments of a life wrought with torture and war. Now, even here, so far from those who had pained him, the memories found in every blemish continued to hinder his quest for peace.

Sliding out from beneath the blankets Sail pulled on his loose-fitting trousers, stepping from the bedchamber into the adjoining lounge, in search of his dearest. She had gone no great distance. Standing at the window of Sail's cabin so did she gaze out upon the nightly sky. A cotton gown enshrouded her, fixed and secured with a simple tie about her frame. Moonlight rippled silver amidst the streams of her auburn hair, itself held back by a simple, patterned strip of Voile: a gift from her love.

Sail approached her with light tread. She seemed to sense his coming, herself offering him a slight glance and a warm smile. Sail drew in behind his dearest lass, his touch, laced with tenderness as his arms enveloped her. His touch came to rest at her waist, caressed tenderly, feeling the beauty of her frame.

They exchanged no words, none were needed, instead they each took in the heavenly glory, a picturesque vision seemly just for them.

"You seem burdened." questioned Sail, Anchor sighed, her hands coming to rest upon her beloveds touch, filled with endearment.

"Father troubles me," Anchor confided, "Mother wishes I marry for love, but I know father thinks more for the prospects of the family when he thinks of my union tie."

"You worry that my lack of kind will hinder us?"

"Slightly," Anchor mused, "I'm concerned that father will not give us his blessing."

"We can talk to him," stated Sail, "We can explain our feelings, how we feel for each other, surely he will not stand in the way of your happiness. That is, if you are happy with me?"

Anchor smiled, turned in his embrace, threading her arms about his neck. She gazed deep into the shaded, jade depths she knew so well.

"I love you," she whispered softly, "You and me, remember?"

"I-"

The door to the cabin burst open. Harry drew away from his spouse, instincts primed for combat. Surprise reeled him at the sight of the terror strewn woman before him. Lady Granger slammed the door closed behind her, breathing desperately, her weight resting against the door as if it were a seal of salvation.

"What in the name of-?"

"Please!" Granger's voice was laced with fear, shrill, terrified. In haste she rushed towards Harry, gripping his arm desperately, her clutch filled with fright, eyes wrought with panic.

"Hide me, please!" Granger shook him, emphasising her need for sanctuary. Confusion rocked Harry but he could not deny the compassion he felt within.

"With me!" stated Harry. Forcefully he ushered Granger to the conjoined kitchen, therein rested the larder: an expansive, dead bolted cold cupboard. Once within he opened a small section of the wooden floor, which led to a man-made tunnel beneath the earth, Harry's own fail safe for friends and loved ones. Thankfully Granger hurried down the shadowy tunnel, her demeanour as timid as a kitten. Harry turned towards Ginny, his love, his Anchor.

"And you." Sail ordered his tone stern.

"But I…"

"Now!"

Never had Sail used such a tone with her. Herself, sensing his concern, lightly touched his heart, before she herself hurried within the tunnel after Granger. Harry sealed the door behind them, bolting the door and wrapping the key about his neck on a thin chain. Harry knew that Anchor had access to a spare key, it hung on a bracket on the opposite side of the larder; so as to ensure they would not be trapped within the exit-less tunnel. Drawing in one deep breath, he felt the air grow cold. Instinct flared. Harry needed his sword.


	6. Anchor's Cry

_**Anchor's Cry**_

The cabin door burst open upon a torrent of air, chill, ice cold as though upon its gale the spectre of death followed. So great was the force behind the wind that it forced Harry's footing to fumble, his lean, though peace touched form no match for the sheer force of nature. His wealth of raven hair billowed behind him as that of some great, ornate mantle.

They entered with grace, wrought with that of an Elvin's stride, though these abominations possessed none of the beauty attributed to the now extinct race of ancient Vallyn.

Clad in dark, crimson stained laminar, each of the figures converged upon Harry, three in number, three in all. Eyes of deep, chill cerulean took in the threat possessed within the defiant figure of Harry, their faces obscured by soiled, age worn wrappings.

Within the grip of the figures so did each bared a jagged, serrated Longsword. Upon each of the blades so was tainted the crimson kiss of blood, their blades speaking of terrible horrors they had enforced, their forging for the infliction of agony and death.

These three figures encircle Harry, his only safety the firm structure of the solid wall behind him, sparing him from total enclosure. The three stepped forward, drawing ever near, eyes vivid, chill in tone as they seared into the young man before them.

Harry stood forcefully, his form pressed hard into the safety of the wall, his gaze drifting from figure to figure, weapon drawn. His body caught in a tremor, perhaps from the sheer chill that seemed to resonate from these shaded beings, perhaps from something much more primal.

Harry felt _The Rising,_ the stirring of the vile entity which shared his soul. A taint sired from his years of combat, enforced slavery, born from the rending of his will so many years past.

His breathing grew low, issued an ominous, threatening growl, his teeth clenched, eyes malformed. Once shaded jade depths drew to stark, deepest obsidian, felt the sinking, the eruption of his dreaded taint. His grip firmed upon the pommel of his sword, the vile, acrid taste of blood filled his mouth, horrific, abhorrent, sickly in its sweetness. The taint drew him down into the depths of darkness. The form of Harry roared his defiance.

Harry, for no other name existed to describe the figure, attacked. Gone was the peaceful, haunted soul of Candonia, replaced by a wild, feral animal. With swiftness so did he arch his sword, sweeping the blade through the air in a cleaving, full weighted slice. The figures before him scattered, drew back in protection, Harry lunged, drawing into the space freed from the relinquished presence of the chill gazed warriors.

A scream, as that of rending metal, tore from the throat of a single, dark veiled figure. Bat-like, horrid so did it lunge. The two swords clashed, blood stained steel meeting black, Elvin forging, though with their clash there was no sense of metal upon metal, only the issue of a dark, agonised scream as that of a tortured wildling. Harry steeled himself against the soul rending sound, fell to a volley of blows between he and the faceless creature.

The figure swung a moment too late, and with a clash of blades, Harry lifted his free arm to strike his elbow into the jaw of his attacker. The recipient of Harry's attack doubled back, allowing its companions to engage.

They fought, two on one, Harry falling to a dance of blows. Parries, evasions, strikes from fist, blade and foot, Harry struck at his foes. Harry's sword struck true, catching a single figure in the side with a cleaving slice. Ichor, rich, bright silver stained both the blade and oaken floor of the cabin. The figure screeched, drew back, clutching at the wound in its side.

The third and first entities took up the battle, forcing Harry into a desperate struggle for self-preservation. A swipe caught him deep, smote him true within the flesh of his side, the other struck low, slicing through flimsy cotton, tearing into the flesh of Harry's thigh. A cry of pain tore from Harry, his leg willowed beneath the agony of his wound; he drew back, unknowing of the severity of his injuries, though they wept crimson tears.

Within the confines of the tunnel Ginny clutched Granger close, hearing her sobs, felt her tears of fear. Never had Ginny known anyone to be so afraid. Through the faint light, issuing from rents in the wooden floor above, Ginny sighted Granger's now fear strewn eyes, saw the shards of broken pride deep within her.

From the distance of the cabin above Anchor heard the cries of her beloved Sail. Her heart ached, agonised, pained, fearful. Determinedly Ginny relinquished her hold of Granger, crawling back in the direction of the cabin.

"I can't stand this!" Ginny stated, drawing aside the hatch of the tunnel, hastening to aid her dearest.

"What are you doing?" screamed Granger fear still laced in her tone. "You'll be killed!"

"I understand, but I can't let him die for me, I will die with him. So is the way of love," she spoke no more, hastily she climbed forth into the larder. Granger shuddered, her fear too great for her to offer any assistance, though her heart filled with affection for the pair.

Upon taking the spare key to the larder, which rested on the opposite side of the door, secured by a chain, Ginny released the lock of the door venturing back into the cabin.

The sound of combat greeted Anchor as she stepped from the cold cupboard. Her heart caught tight, erupted deep within her throat, fear heightening her emotions. Inside she felt a gathering of her love, her fear, her passion for Sail. Tears lightened her once deep brown eyes as she slowly drew forward. From the sanctuary inside the kitchen Anchor felt a sudden, drowning sensation, her vision hazed, blinded, her final sight that of deepest black.

Harry's wounds bled open, crimson strewn wounds. His heart, soul, very being yearned for an end of the insistent, unrelenting attack. But his spirit, his desire to protect Anchor and Granger willed him forward. He pressed his weight down upon his heavy Longsword. Harry possessed very little strength remaining, the wound in his side screamed with agony with his every movement, drew a hiss of pain from his lips, as once more he stood to engage the three.

His leg willowed once more, catching himself on his hands Harry glanced towards the now encroaching figures. They surrounded him, swords lifted for the final strike.

She entered with seamless grace. Turning, sensing her, so deep was their connection, Sail sighted Anchor. His heart screamed in terror for her, the thought of losing her more a greater fear than the prospect of death. Her eyes, once so deep, so intense with love and affection, now grew malformed, her gaze now a ghostly ashen white.

The ambiance of the room seared with power. A great wind issued from the world outside, burst into the cabin through the still open partitions. Anchors hair billowed, caught within a wild array of crimson thread. Raising her arms to the heavens, Anchor omitted a single, strident scream.

A shockwave of energy ripped through the tiny cabin. The walls shattered, the shaded figures screamed, the cabin erupted in a terrifying display of power, devastation, fury. Sail had just enough strength left within him to sight his dear Anchor collapse, willowed, weakened.

His body gave over too shock, exhaustion. Slowly, Harry slipped into the depths of darkness.


	7. A Fathers Order

_**A Father's Order**_

"Anchor?" her name issued from Sail's lips, his eyes opening ever-so-slightly, the world around him hazed, dappled, strained at the first sight of wakefulness. His first thoughts were not of agony, pain or death, safety or danger, but were filled strident with thoughts of her. His love, his passion for his dearest Anchor the very first emotion emanating from his heart.

Harry sought her salutation, his soul craving her fastening support, strength and joy, needed to calm the chaos which was his warring sea. Distress poisoned his emotions, fear, heartache, panic beginning to ensue at the loss of their unity. No gentle voice, no anchorage of support, no returned sense of love, only emptiness, a deep, gaping void, depthless, agonised, lanced deep his heart.

His every movement suddenly surged with pain, a wrench of agony deep within the depths of his side. He fought back the sensations, made to erect himself from his once slumbered position.

He felt it suddenly, soft, elegant hands gently pressed upon his chest, forcing him back down, not with force, but laced with tenderness and concern. Harry turned his gaze, lifted his hands to wipe the haze away. A soft voice issued a coo beside him.

"There, there, gently now," the voice was alien, not Anchor's but a voice he

remembered, soft, accented, a gentle, melodic trill, as that of a softly woven melody. Harry' eyes grew clear so as to sight Lady Granger stationed beside him, her hands were those which held him down with such gentleness.

"Easy hero," Granger trilled softly reaching forth, sweeping away stray strands of his wealth of hair which obscured his face. "You've sustained a nasty wound to your side, any harsh movements may undo your treatment."

Granger spoke with wisdom, though Harry' emotions stormed without Anchor. Around him Harry felt the comforts of trivial things, the folds of many blankets to ward away chill, the flickering warmth of a fire stationed amidst them, the rich fragrance of pine needles emanating from the many evergreens which surrounded them. But these things were all but trifles of comfort, offering little peace to the sheer heartache he felt within. His only thought upon the wellbeing of his dear Anchor.

"Where…? Where is she?" Harry questioned of Lady Granger, his vision now cleared fully, allowing him to sight the look of dejection which clouded her visage.

"I'm so sorry," Granger spoke softly, caringly. "She was taken." Granger's voice was gentle, but with an absolution leaving nothing left to chance. Harry' heart rent with loss. Tears glistened in his eyes, burying his head into his hands so did he sob, wept tears of agony and loss, lost to any sense of shame. Granger gazed at him lightly, seeing the true heartbreak, the agony he felt at the taking of his dear one. But slowly Harry' sobs gave over from heartache to growls of raging fury.

"Which way?" Harry spat turning his intense, shaded eyes upon Granger, themselves searing with heated rage. "Where would they go with her?" Granger swallowed.

"South," Granger gazed upon Harry her look of quiet caution. "They shall go around Starrbow Loch in an attempt to bring her into System territory. You were the only one I could save from the wreckage of your cabin. Ginny's intense display of power cannot be left uncontrolled by System Enforcers."

"What were those things?" Harry questioned.

"We know them simply as They," Granger informed, "We know not their names. Those things of which you fought are the System's elite Elf Hunters."

"Elf Hunters?" Harry snorted riley, "What use are Elf Hunters to the System. All know that the elves died out with The Reaping."

"So state human records," said Granger in a tone of intense malcontent.

Granger spoke the term, _human_, as if she were something more, something other than earthborn flesh and blood. Casually, with careful fingers, Granger began to pry the firm leather glove from her right hand.

Harry gasped, as with the unveiling of her arm, now unrestricted, so omitted a beautiful illumination, radiating from her forearm. The light was electric blue, intensive, as bright as a thousand candle flames, as soft, gentle as starlight. Drawing himself closer, Harry gazed down at her erected arm to sight, fixed into her skin, a bright blue orb polished to crystal sheen, perfectly spherical as smooth as glass, filled with streaking rays of white light.

"Illylithium," stated Granger, answering Harry' questioning gaze. "This is the gift the System seeks from the elves, also how we have managed to conceal ourselves amidst your people since the Reaping. This is the substance which cloaks an Elvin's true

form, and in its purest state allows its bearer the use of what you human's call, magic."

"So you are…?" Harry choked, stumbling over the words in utter disbelief. He gazed towards Granger, her smile almost pitying.

"Of elven blood, yes, this is the reason why those things came for me. Which I also muse that they took your dear Ginny in hope that I follow, they like to strike at the most painful chambers of the heart."

"Which they have, but their wound has struck _my_ heart. I must follow, I must find her!" stated Harry fiercely. Lady Granger replaced her glove, in her doing so thus did the light of the Illylithium extinguish, casting them once more back into shade and moonshine. It was only then that Harry first sighted the sword girdled at her waist: Fashioned from deliberately muted gold. Ash leafs of pale gold ornamented the cross-guard. Strands of golden vines festooned the pale white scabbard. Resting her hand upon the hilt of her sword Granger nodded.

"I owe you for your sanctuary." Said Granger quietly, though Harry could see in her eyes that the thought of chasing They struck her with fear. "I will help you find your Ginny."

"What of your fellow merchants? Would they not help us?"

Granger scoffed, seemingly amused at Harry' innocents.

"Those which would help us, my caravan, left at first light. I had been meaning to arrange a meeting with you, to attempt your persuasion towards our cause. The rest of those wayfarers survive with the taint of greed. They would not offer food to a starved soul. We are utterly alone in this venture."

A snarl of outrage exhumed from Harry' throat. Inside he felt the familiar surge of fear at the thought of facing those dreaded plains, the thought of travelling back towards the System. But now it was forced down, itself overwhelmed by an intense determination and searing rage.

Harry' heart deprived him of sleep. Inside not only his heart, his very soul felt sick with lament at the loss of his beloved Ginny. Tears of sorrow fell unchallenged and unashamed at her taking, while at the edge of grief there rested a heated, burning fury. Upon his lap there settled his gift: the ornate black sword. Harry' fingers caressed it lovingly, allowed himself to fall into the vengeful depths of his fury. Fantasising, wishing, inflicting the deaths of the vile They, all in the name of Ginny. Harry knew not how long he festered within such fantasies, but when finally he pulled himself back from the depths, the sun was slowly rising, as had roused Lady Granger.

Harry greeted her not unkindly, but without warmth of tone. The elf maiden gazed at him with a gaze withdrawn, saw the breaking of him, the inner turmoil within which he was the victim.

"How shall you tell Ginny's loved ones?" questioned Granger, Harry turned to face her, his visage shaded, eyes dark, tear sore. He spoke no words to her, her fears un-reassured. Instead he sheathed his splendid black sword, arose to his full height. Harry stood proud as a king, broken as his heart within. Slowly he stepped out from the wilderness, paused to look one last time at Lady Granger, before gesturing for her to follow, which she did stepping into his train.

Arthur, Ginny's blood born father, stood at his forge, himself aroused in the early hours in preparation of the early mornings work. As Candonia's Smith he was of highly regard amongst the croft, as such his daughter Ginny was a highly sort after wed tie. Stepping up to his forge Arthur haled Harry in greeting, a greeting Harry failed to return.

"Welcome young Harry," The Smith greeted with hearty cheer. "How goes my future wed-kin? I trust you to be treating my daughter with the respect that becomes her?"

Wed-kin? The use of such terms brought about another terrible lance of pain to Harry' heart. So Arthur was willing to accept him into his family. Swallowing Harry reached for Arthur's shoulder.

"Good sir," Harry spoke, his voice breaking with heartache. "I must…"

Determinedly the young man forced strength into himself as he spoke, speaking of the taking of Arthur's beloved daughter. With each of his words so did Harry see the rising of anger within the elder man's eyes, the tremble of rage searing through the broad Smith. Arthur's large hands closed tight about his weighted forge hammer. His face hardened with fury, for a moment Harry suspected that the Smith grew set to attack him, an action Harry would not protest. Slowly, the Smith breathed, turned away from the young man.

Arthur buried his head in one large, calloused hand. His frame trembled with internal agony. Harry longed to comfort him, to console the Smith. He kept his stead, offered only silence. An intense, weighted ambiance filled the Smithy, ominously Arthur turned to face Harry. When he spoke his tone was even, strong, commanding.

"Bring her back!"


	8. Pursuit of Devils

_**Pursuit of Devils**_

Together, Potter and Granger united their purses, themselves far from affluent, their meagre wealth consisting of few copper Slater, very little silver Sterling with even less golden Sovereigns. In pairs they each purchased sturdy draw string sacks and a supply of previsions. Granger herself exchanged a fair silver wrought broach, herself selling the broach for almost thrice beneath the decorations true value in her haste to sell. This single, selfless act of sacrifice soothed some of the anger and blame Harry felt emanating towards her. Granger had passed her trinket on all in the name of assisting him, and for that he was grateful.

When at last he and Granger were efficiently supplied, they each stood on the edge of the wilderness, beyond the confines of the peaceful region of Candonia. Granger gazed at Harry, saw the determination in his eyes, and with one final gaze between them, Hermione stepped out on point, leading them away from the village along the trail, leading onwards into the wilderness.

High amidst the mountains of Ena'Strait the air grew clear and crisp. The united chill of the air and the sight of deep, grey clouds hinted of the end of summer. As the two descended from amidst the heights of the mountains secure arms, so did the two companions come to the wealth and expanse of the Heart region.

Mist veiled and streamed amid heather strewn valleys, cloaking the ambiance with a stark melancholy. The air, still and gloomy, sounded with the music of nature, the chirp of insects, the trill of birds. The crunch of ice strewn heather sounded beneath the tread of the two companions, the mist drawing chill with every breath, seeped through seem of garment.

Stone, root and hidden sinks existed beneath the crusting of ice and snow, awaiting un-cautious footing. Chary animals sifted, scuttled upon the edge of sight, their scurries and movements adding to the air of nature. The mist grew colder as they stepped on. Thirst and little food plagued Harry and Granger, as they sort to ration what provisions they carried.

At Harry's generosity Granger wore a cloak of sturdy, wool lined cotton, offering her some relief from the bitter chill of the wind. Trusting unto her instincts, Granger suspected, who upon these musings she confided, that the Elf Slayers would choose to avoid the treks and passes of the mountains, choosing the unpaved valleys of The Heart. Her suspicions centred upon the free state of Leasthart.

Of all the settlements within the Unclaimed North, both Leasthart and its sibling settlement: Arncroft, were among the only places this far from the south that within, System supporters could find solace and refuge. The residents of Leasthart's and Arncroft cared not for the barbarity of the System, nor the beliefs of the free people. Their position as a Free State and settlement proclaimed their loyalties to the passing of Gold. It was whispered amongst Non-System crofts, that nothing, stock or person, came without a price within the walls of these two communities. A low, throaty growl omitted from deep within Harry' throat, at the mention of the Free State and their allegiance. His hand came to rest upon the pommel of his sword, his thoughts of Anchor. He would not allow her to endure the horrors of The System.

The hours pressed on. Drawing themselves atop a steep tor, centred amidst their trek, the companions did scale. Looking out atop the high mound, both Granger and Harry gazed out towards the horizon. The sun was slowly westering, bringing with its passing a stiff, brittle chill. The light was swiftly fading, soon they would be plunged into darkness and shelter was needed, shelter from both the chill wind and the wanderings of natural foes. A break opened amidst the veil of mist, lifting to reveal several clusters of trees upon the eastern clef.

"Shelter!" Granger chimed, rejoiced, thankful, pointing towards the distance. The wind caught Harry and Granger's hair and cloaks, billowing forth the wealth of garb and tress as that of a great mantel of office. "We can find shelter amidst that cluster of trees."

Harry lifted a hand to his eyes, gazed deep into Granger's direction, sighting amongst the stream and flow of mist a small cluster of pine trees.

The gathering of trees grew, strong and proud, standing as that of a towering natural citadel. It deviated from their chosen path, but was the only natural shelter in viewable distance.

"Let us hope so," breathed Harry, his breath forming vapour in the air before him, his eyes turning to sight the finals rays of the westering sun. It took until the dawn of star fall for Harry and Granger to migrate the Heart, finally coming to the shelter of the pine cluster. The sky over head grew shaded, breaks in the mist and cloud unveiled a deep purple sky, strewn with an endless number of bright, gentle stars.

The two companions made shelter amidst the roots of a fallen tree, Harry winding shards and needle speckled branches amid the foundations of the tree. Thus creating a half domed shelter.

When at last Harry had finished with the creation of the shelter, so did he turn to sight Granger, sitting stationed by a bright, warm fire. Flickering tongues of flame burned blue within her wealth of dark hair, the fire warming two cups settled near the foundations. Granger lifted one of these, to which she proffered to Harry.

"To ease the chill," Granger stated as Harry settled next to her, his air demure. Harry nodded his acceptance, gazing down into the depths to sight pine needles swimming amidst the water. Pine needle tea was amongst Harry' favourites, he sipped silent, brooding, his eyes lifting every now and then to sight the sombre ambiance within his fair companion.

"I'm sorry," Granger finally spoke, speaking light, pain stricken, gentle. Granger's gaze turned, sighted Harry, saw the shade centred within his intense grey eyes. "I'm sorry about Ginny. It was me who brought those abominations to your cabin. I understand if you hate me."

Harry swallowed. His gaze left Granger's to fall into the depths and embers of the fire. He sipped his tea, brooding, lost to thought. The flames depths seemed endless, endless as the rage which surged through him, rage for the loss of his dear Anchor. He closed his eyes, feeling the embers of fury burning deep within his depths, a sickening, heated fury. Harry breathed, turning he sighted Granger.

"I don't hate you," his tone was soft, gentle, agonised. "I hate those who have taken my love. But I don't hate you, friend Granger."

Harry' words eased a great weight centring within his companion. She smiled, set down her cup and stretched the ache in her arms and muscles. She stood, tall as a queen, as strong as a warrior, as fair as the elf maiden she was.

"Sleep Harry," so stated Granger gently, gesturing towards the shelter. "I know you found no rest on the night of her taking. You need your strength. Sleep, I will watch over you,"

Harry breathed, exhaustion paramount within him. He took a final swig of his tea before standing, settling himself thankfully within the shelter. His mind, heart, troubled him with woe, Granger saw that her companion would not find rest even at her generosity. Slowly, gently, so did Granger kneel down within the shelters entrance, eyed Harry kindly, laid a soft hand upon his brow. He heard it softly, a light, gentle melody, a slight mental push easing him from wakefulness to the depths of slumber. The push was gentle, fair, friendly. He heard it slowly, Granger's voice, a soft, sweet melody heard only by him.

Harry' eyes closed, his body sapped of all restless energy, so did Harry slip into his first deep, untroubled sleep.

Smiling, Granger laid blankets over her companion, his breathing light, unhindered. Sitting before their fallen pine tree, Granger never left her companions side, her watch unbroken, her pledge fulfilled, her heart…


	9. Cast of the Cards

_**Cast of the Cards**_

The two companions ate in rationed caution, the still _thankfully_ soft loaf and goat cheese providing a sustainable, if unsatisfactory breakfast. The once enveloping warmth of the fire smouldered, its heat fading, its once comforting warmth now nothing more than chard, smoky embers.

Both Harry and Granger knew to sample what little comfort offered to them, knowing that the trial of The Heart still laid before them. When finally their meal was finished, Harry doused the embers, drawing from them a smoky hiss, the noise issuing strident upon the still silence of the valley.

Gathering up their provisions and commodities, so did Granger and Harry shoulder their drawstring sacks and drew their cloaks tight about them. Together each breathed in the chill morning air, glancing amidst the cluster of trees, hearts filled with strength and courage, each prepared to face the battle against nature.

They trekked in silence, no words past or needed between them. The shelter of the trees drew slowly behind them. Once more the two companions stepped out to sight the mist strewn valley, the dawn of the sun gratefully overwhelming the veil of cloud and mist, offering slight warmth, bestowing vision amidst the once choking haze.

"Do fiends wander these dells?" Granger asked, her question coming upon a distance of leagues, themselves unable to keep a steady pace, a result of the thick, ensnaring heather. Harry offered her a slight gaze as together they continued their trek, their voices united with the scurry of natural dwellers within their midst.

"Many things walk these hills." Harry responded, his words bringing not comfort to Granger's fears. The elf maiden swallowed, she could sense the unease within her companion, an unease shared by she herself. Around them the air pressed dark and cold, filled with a heightened anger, even enmity.

"The Heart…" Granger spoke, her voice breaking with emotion, her gaze taking in the surrounding land. "I can feel its fury."

Harry breathed. Lightly he offered a caress to Granger's long dark hair. Granger sighed gently, his touch comforting. Harry questioned himself on what they could have done to infuriate the hills, though too the voicing of these musings Granger offered no answer.

Together the companions pressed on, through the ever stretching expanse. The gentle chirp of insects sounded, the bite of gnats infuriating. Though, with these annoyances so was offered comfort, comfort in knowing that it was not just they who dwelled amidst the valleys.

Legs began to ache, will drained. Slowly, as the trek became all the more difficult, so did the two companions settle beside the flow of a brook, its waters clear, cold, streamed across a bed of purifying stone. The sound of the wilderness issued among them, foreboding and intimately soothing. The swift roar of the wind carried the many sounds to their ears. The unity of nature, the gentle gurgle of the stream. Off amidst the depths of the wilderness, so came the song of wolves.

The voice of the wolves settled about them, intimately beautiful, frightful in its power. Through the heavy overcast within the heavens, so did slight rays of delicate sunshine stream upon the resting pair. Its sheen soft, a gentle radiance amidst the chill of the valley.

The structure broke out from amidst the haze as that of a thirst drawn hallucination. Harry was the first to sight the ghostly structure, its walls seemingly forged from solid masonry, though such was impossible so far a distance from the raw bones of the earth.

Granger, her gaze coming to the direction her companion faced, grew bright with radiance. They each saw it, resting intimately amid the mist, its walls seeming to blend with the streams of haze which caressed its walls.

Smoke billowed from the structures chimney, the potential discovery of both food and shelter a luxury unsurpassable. Together, both Harry and Granger stepped towards the structure, its form that of a hikers cabin, a bothy. Renewed vigour filled their steps. Upon the approach of the cabin; the pairs bodies grew stiff with ache, wracked with hunger, so did they scent the fragrance of freshly prepared food. It sifted from the structure, teasing, enticing, delicious. Upon the wind, as sweet as summertime, as rich as silver, there issued a soft clear voice ringing in harmonious melody.

_**High in will**_

_**You may search far**_

_**But soon will come your journey**_

_**So rest as you are near**_

_**Amongst the shadows you will face**_

_**The image you once called yourself**_

_**And only then your journey**_

_**Will be complete **_

"Such…" Granger gasped, Harry remained quiet, uncommenting. They approached the entrance. Suspicion slowly infested Harry' need for sustenance and shelter, instead he drew back, sullen, cautious, weary.

Granger, sighting her companion's fears, stepped slowly onto the threshold of the cabin, peered within the simple entrance. Within Granger sighted a slight, modest room set with plain dining table, stationed beneath a low, thick beamed ceiling. Whitewash decorated the walls. At the heart of the room so rested a great, cast iron stove, before which, stood the figure of a woman.

The woman stood, straight backed, hair of bright, rich gold resting at her waist tied in a thick, intricate braid. Her gown was of simple grey, girdled with a strip of fine silk. Lightly, before a large pot, the woman ladled portions of stew into two wooden vessels. Gently, without turning, the woman spoke in a light, urbane tone.

"Both you and your food will chill, if you each stand amongst the cold too long. Please, enter the warmth; all are welcome within the home of Mistress Luna."

Both Granger and Harry edged gingerly within, as the woman titled Mistress Luna turned, arms laden with trays of food. The woman's visage was fair, youthful, heart shaped with gentle features, her smile warm, welcoming.

"Oh you dear, wretched souls," Luna moaned, setting down the trays upon the table, ushering Harry and Granger gently to seats.

As fretful as a mother would concern for her young, Mistress Luna wrapped each of the companions in warm blankets, pressing skins of warm water upon them, from which they each found comfort. The food though plain, appealing, satisfying, itself seeming to ease both the spiritual soul whilst offering warmth to the physical form.

Mistress Luna watched with a smile of pleasure and satisfaction, the contented looks found within Harry and Lady Granger's eyes, seemingly all the thanks she wished for.

Later, when both Harry and Granger had eaten, Granger's head lolled sleepily upon Harry' shoulder. Only then did Mistress Luna break the pleasant silence.

"She should be put to rest." Luna said gently, gesturing to the slumbering Granger. Harry nodded, standing. Gingerly, with gentle arms filled with strength, so did the young man lift his companion from her seat. Gathering her into his arms, Harry followed Luna to the rear of the cabin. There they came to a small bedroom complete with two beds: A guest room. Setting Granger down Harry slowly removed her fur lined boots, Granger herself lost to sleep. Standing over her, Harry gazed upon his companions entrancing beauty. A rare smile crossed his lips, he turned, glancing back once more, leaving Granger to her slumber.

Mistress Luna sat at the table, seemingly engaged at a game of cards. Intrigued, Harry took up the seat opposite her, his eyes drifting over the cards. It was here that he sighted the oddity of the deck. These cards unlike any decks he had seen before this day.

Rather than possessing the simple numbers of plain gaming cards, this deck was comprised of decorated, ornate pictures, complete with the depiction of legends.

"Curious?" questioned Mistress Luna, her tone mysterious. Harry nodded. Luna gathered up the cards and began to shuffle them.

"These are fate cards." Mistress Luna stated, speaking to Harry' intrigue. "Long before the rise of The System, the ancient heroes of Styria wished for the diviners to cast them. Hoping that with their casting so would they divine the fate set before them. The art has long since been outlawed, the secrets slowly fading beneath the weight of time."

"Can you cast them?" Harry questioned, Luna lifted her gaze to him, meeting his eye, she nodded.

"I can, but know that the fate of one can always change. Fate is defined by actions and is not set in stone."

A sense of apprehension knotted within Harry' depths. He gazed at the fate cards, each resting innocently before the woman opposite him. Within, Harry struggled with indecision, tossed between the innocence of ignorance and the risk of foreseen knowledge.

"_My fate could always change_," Harry mussed, his resolve settled, he spoke clearly. "Cast them."

Silently, with eloquent grace, Mistress Luna began to shuffle her cards. With ease and skill the deck was satisfactorily randomised. Luna set the cards down upon the table. Drawing from beneath their station, so did the diviner uncoil a silky purple alter cloth. The cloth was decorated with an intricate knot boarder, itself dominated by a fine, golden pentagram.

"Your hand." Luna requested, her hand reaching forth for Harry' own. Harry placed his right hand in hers palm up. Drawing forth a black Athame, lightly Mistress Luna made a small incision within Harry' index finger. Harry neither winced, nor drew away at the stinging kiss of the blade, a crimson speck forming upon the tip of his finger.

"You have felt pain terrible." Breathed Luna lightly, setting down her Athame. Closing her eyes she lifted her hand above cards, cloth and blood. The air grew thick, weighted with a presence, welling with an intense force. Harry drew deep his breath, his pulse hastening. Before him Mistress Luna seemed to grow, empowered with strength, presence, power. The air cracked, thick, weighted. Slowly, silently the diviner turned Harry' hand over, allowing two droplets of blood to seep from the tip. One upon the cards, one upon the golden pentacle.

Mistress Luna breathed deep, steady, she released Harry' hand. She sat quiet for several, intense moments, the air about her thick, rippling with a deep energy. Gracefully, without opening her eyes, Mistress Luna drew one card from amidst the body of the deck. This she settled down upon the topmost tip of the pentacle. She neither shuffled the pack nor opened her eyes, her breathing slow, even, controlled.

Her brow flitted, as Harry' did with the surge of suppressed memory. Slowly, Luna lifted one more from the deck. The process continued until five cards rested at each point of the pentagram. Her eyes slowly opened, her intense blue eyes gazed into Harry' shaded jade depths. Together they waited, the air between them weighted. The diviner's hand drifted gradually to the first card, placed at the bottom right most tip of the pentacle.

"The wanderer marks your being," Mistress Luna stated turning over the card. The card she had revealed depicted a merry traveller, adorned in lavish finery, trailed by a jolly puppy. His wanderings however, seemed to be coming to a tragic end, for the jolly fellow appeared about to step from the edge of a steep precipice.

"This is a rare and wonderful card. It marks beginnings, new journeys of the mind, body or soul. New lifestyles, happiness, optimism. Perhaps the most curious, and troubling relation of this card is its linkage to the overturning of the Status quo. This is the card sort by many of the ancient heroes. You are fortunate to possess it."

Harry swallowed, taking in the meaning of his being card. His eye drifted to the section beside the wanderer card, it was this card that Luna turned.

This card seemed much more fierce, depicting an angel engaged in combat with a rabid lion.

"Strength controls your soul," so informed Luna. "This card is courage, the virtue of fortitude and the power of love. Itself exists as a raw and savage card, the card depicts the embodiment of a warrior."

Unease surged through Harry at the meaning of his soul card. He knew that the will of a warrior had been thrust into him, his soul tainted by the barbarity of the past. But to find that his soul possessed the embodiment of a warrior, he shuddered. Once more Luna turned over a card, this one at the very top of the pentacle.

At the unveiling of this card so did the diviner offer Harry a slight smile.

"The star rests in your future. Bringing fresh hope and renewal, but also marred with the taint of grief. I'm sorry, but you are to find both happiness and heartache in your future."

Her hand drifted towards the final two cards. She paused, her fingers trembled. Luna's visage grew wrought with strain, as if she duelled with some intense, spiritual force.

Weightily, Mistress Luna swept the final two cards from the cloth, handing them both to Harry. He blinked in surprise, gazed from her to the cards offered to him.

"You are not to know the meaning of these cards," stated Mistress Luna her words coming in strained effort. "Please, take them and divine your own fate."

Gingerly Harry took them, his fingers tingled with their touch, as if caressed by some otherworldly presence. Hesitantly Harry glanced at the two cards offered to him, wondering what could have happened, what fate lay within these cards? The legends upon each read: _The Breached Fort _and_ The Ace of Roses_.


	10. Companions

Companions

Memories roiled, rage filled, stricken within the tortured depths of Harry's psyche. Once more so did the memories return, blood tainted his touch, though existed too none but he. Agony rent from his throat, his self lost within the depths of his conceptions. His head buried deep into his hands. Tears of suffering, heartache, agony streamed, moistened flesh, themselves innocent to his tainted, impure self.

Within the twisted depths of his imaginings, Harry dwelled within the affliction and agony he longed to evoke upon They. Drawing deeper amidst the raging taint, Harry renounced all weakness, embraced his sickening rage.

His internal defences fragmented in a surge of pain. Harry felt himself dragged, drowning beneath the void. Darkness clouded his gaze, he lunged.

Granger gasped, herself barely into the doorway leading to Mistress Luna's guest room. Her pleasant happiness malformed to shock and terror as her companion, Harry, seized her forcefully about the throat.

Strong, inhumanly strong hands, strangled, forced Granger back hard against the wall. Fingers restricting, choking, heightened their grip. His strangling hand silenced her cries; eyes once haunted jade, now a deep, soulless obsidian. His gaze tunnelled into Granger's, face twisted into a mask of savagery. So many had seen this gaze, each bringing forth the presence of death.

But Granger was not some fearful city dwell or frightened home maid. In reflex, Granger forced her free hand beneath her attackers, thrust her fist up into the exposed region of Harry's armpit. A gasp of pain escaped the savage Harry's throat, his grip slackened, his self caught in shock.

Granger locked her attackers slacken grip in hers, twisted, drove her knee swift into Harry' centre of gravity. His knee buckled, Granger forced his arm straight, using her bodyweight, drove him down with the momentum she possessed, locking Harry' wrist in a vice lock, drawing from him a scream of pain and fury. Driving her knee swiftly into her companions ribs, so did Granger force Harry face first into the foundations of the cabin, his arm straightened, wrist bent backwards in a control hold as she, Granger eyed her struggling companion.

"Harry! Why…?" her words caught in her throat, remembered the dark, emotionless gaze, a gaze which for a fraction of a second had locked with her own. Her confusion gave over to a terrible revelation.

"God's no…" She gasped, relinquishing her grip upon Harry' wrist. Granger sighted the return of the true Harry, himself forcing down the presence of The Taint, the entity itself clawing, attempting to force its way back from the depths, where it was contained.

Within Harry's eyes Granger saw the return from soulless black, to shaded green, himself trembling as one does when caressed by chill ice. Granger kneeled beside her companion. His hand grasped hers desperate, needy, seeking the contact of someone, anyone to bring him strength. Granger clutched his hand, cradled it in both her own, squeezed reassuringly.

Slowly she turned over the trembling hand. Her heart clenched with fear and agony, agony and compassion for him as, seared upon the crown of his hand, seared so perfectly that it could only have been inflicted by machine, rested the Elvish ruin Ilean, the System mark of The Tainted.

"Ilean…" Granger breathed, speaking of the terrible discipline infected upon those chosen to bare the taint.

"He is System Sired," Mistress Luna's gentle voice sounded from amidst the chaos. Granger turned, her gaze troubled sighting the woman framed in the doorway, visage wrought with concern.

"Tainted," breathed Granger, true tears beginning to seep from Harry' eyes. "The Ilean Project."

"He is in need of your strength, Lady Granger," Mistress Luna placed a soft hand upon the elf maiden's shoulder. "He cannot fight the Taint alone."

Granger gazed down at her tortured comrade; saw the agony, the flickering shadow in his eyes, the sign of domination between himself and The Taint. Slowly Granger kneeled beside Harry, took his hand tenderly in hers, softly she caressed his rich, dark locks.

From amidst his darkness so did Harry hear the comfort of her words, felt her kindness, her passion, offering strength against the torture he endured.

A final, feral growl omitted from Harry's lips, pressing his brow deep into the solid wood of the floor. Moments past in quiet concern. His body caught in tremors, eyes strewn with tears, Harry lifted his brow, his soul lifted from the depths, his gaze falling upon Granger.

Where once dark had tainted those eyes, so had returned the intense, haunted depths of green. Granger offered him a smile, her efforts tried, filled with camaraderie. Harry reached forth, softly he caressed Hermione's fair visage.

"I… I'm sorry,"

"Speak not," sighed Granger softly, caressing his hand at his touch, "You knew not your actions, such is the way of the Ilean taint."

Harry's eyes, shaded, grew wrought with memory. Tremulously he rose to his feet. Granger standing with him, her gaze studied, saw him withdraw into himself, lost to memory. She turned to Mistress Luna who only offered a smile, her voice silent.

"We must go." stated Granger, drawing Harry suddenly back to wakefulness, his visage wrought with a unity of shock and fearful hope.

"You still-?"

"I made a promise," stated Granger, "We must track They and rescue your Anchor. We travel together, sword by sword."

"Sword by sword." breathed Harry. Luna wept, her heart warmed at such comradeship. With a light sweep of her braid the diviner swept from the chamber, Harry and Hermioner followed, each gaze centred within.

The hour pressed on, the sun sweeping at zenith when Mistress Luna bayed her guests farewell. Supplied with fresh provisions, Luna's gift of safety, warmth and shelter thankfully received by the pair. She sort no payment, herself speaking more in riddles and rhymes of her reward, her words vague to her guests.

"Follow the flow of the mighty Quamnar," Luna advised in wisdom, "It flows from the depths of the Nameless peaks. From its course you should come south west to Arncroft. Once there you can gain passage to Leasthart."

"We thank you again for your kindness," said Granger bowing to Mistress Luna. "You've done so much for us; you have my sword and fortitude."

"Mine also, great lady." replied Harry in kind. Together the pair drew their swords, crossed them before Mistress Luna in a display of loyalty. Luna smiled, laid a soft hand at the point where each blade met.

"Be there for each other," so said Luna, her tone sweet yet weighted with solemnity, "True friendship is a most precious gift. Be watchful of each other, and even in the face of a broken world, never forget that you have one another."

Mistress Luna drew away. Perhaps it had been a reflection upon the clear steel of the blade. Still, they each saw it. Stationed where Mistress Luna's hand had lay there rested a band of deepest gold uniting the two blades. As fleeting as a sun ray, as solid as a ring of unity, so did the band fade, drawing confusion from the pair.

The companions offered their farewells, before venturing back upon their journey. They glanced back one last time, sighted not Luna nor the cabin, itself seemingly lost to the realms of imaginings.

The river Quamnar was a brutal and savage force. Its source, high amidst the heights of the Nameless Peeks, streamed through the valleys at a rapid pace. The river tossed up high white water spray amidst the air, dousing its banks, crashed and churned through rapids and crooks, as the river fought its way towards the sea, far across Styria's western shores.

Harry' hackles rose, jointed with unease as they followed the river from height. Soon the pair came to a sheer crevice, etched into the earth through the erosion of time, offering sights of the beauty and savage grander of nature.

"Such a wonder," Granger sighed, drawing her gaze down the moist, moss strew crags at the sight of the Quamnar deep within. Harry nodded in unison, stepping to the granite ledge following her gaze within the fissure.

"Beautiful, but merciless," Harry breathed speaking more to himself than his comrade. Stepping away from the natural wonder they followed the cavity, while it etched its way across the plains like a scar.

The land levelled, the Quamnar shed its offspring into less fierce channels, spilling through the dells like arteries, issuing life amidst the living valley. The sun was slowly seeping behind the horizon. Together the Quamnar led them on for twelve more leagues. Granger sighted them before Harry.

"A Harlinnian pack!" Granger exclaimed, her joy evident.

The wildings to which Harry saw were truly remarkable to behold. Pelts of silver grey, flecked with streams of shimmering gold. The Harlinnian wolves grew to the mass of eastern elk; their pups easily rivalled that of a fully grown domestic hound. A chill wind issued from the direction of the pair, carrying their scent towards the Harlinnian pack. The wolves paused, lifted their mussels, scented the air. Turning in the direction of the scent so did they sense the presence of human and elf.

The wolves hastened away, fear of hunters, poachers and trappers making the once welcoming animals fretful. Granger lowered her gaze, sadness emanated as they watched the animals fade into the wilderness, her heart weighted with sorrow.

"So the innocent suffer," Granger breathed. Beyond the sight of the wildlings so did Arncroft loom clear to behold, the sun offering its final hours of daylight before its final slumber.

"Should we press on?" questioned Harry of Granger he, much like his companion, aching for the simple comforts of an inn.

"Honest travellers would press on." stated Granger drawing her lower leg behind her, easing the tension out of her thighs. Each knew the dangers of what awaited them inside Arncroft, the free-holding sworn neither to System nor freeman. Their ways, like Leasthart, sworn only to the price of sovereign gold and sterling silver. Harry and Granger gazed at one another, together they made reluctant pace towards the free-holding.

Arncroft wasn't so much a Grangerge, as far apart from the simple crofts of Candonia could be, itself more an erected fortification. The walls constructed from a mass of pine and oak logs, fashioned into a barrier around the main heart of the town. Stepping up to the gate Granger rapped sharply with the stud of her boot, the pair waiting as the heavens began a deluge upon the valley. They waited, several moments past; Granger studded the door once more, their garb now chill and rain washed. With her second rapping a tiny slot set into the heart of the doorway opened, exposing dark, scornful eyes.

"Aye?" croaked the gatekeeper, looking from Harry to Granger, his eyes radiant with suspicion.

"We are travellers from Candonia. We seek shelter at your inn." spoke Granger richly, addressing the gatekeeper.

"Ya have coin?" crocked the gatekeeper eying Granger, his eyes drifting over her form, concealed within the cloak she bore. "Ya can always pay in services young lady; a beauty such as you could earn much at-"

"We have coin," snapped Harry forcefully rapping the door with the stud of his boot. "And if your eyes lavish upon my companion once more gatekeeper, you shall be loss of one."

Harry drew back the drape of his cloak, exposing the ornate pommel of his sword. The gatekeeper eyed the sword greedily, eyes sifting once more across Granger.

"Companion?" the gatekeeper spoke in mock defence, Harry speaking of the title used to describe the presence of one's spouse. "I apologise good sir, she is, after all, a great beauty,"

"Your compliments please me," Harry said, his tone rich with authority, "You mentioned coin?"

"Three sterling, each, good sir." The Gatekeeper's eyes swept over Granger once more. Harry glowered, counted out the required number before passing over the silver to the gatekeeper. The main entrance was unbolted, both travellers entered, omitted. Granger walked past the gatekeeper with her head held high, the sallow fellow's eyes drawing away at Harry' gaze. The hand of her companion threaded into hers, Harry himself glancing back once more, his gaze sending the man scuttling into the safety of the gatehouse.

"Companion?" whispered Granger her tone light with mirth.

"Well, do you want a low life like him drooling over you?" Harry winked as they stepped through the streets. Granger gazed at Harry, her eyes swept over him, smiling she pressed her body close to his, wrapped her arm about his waist.

"I guess I can play companion for a while." Harry' heart wrenched as he put an arm around Granger's shoulders. His heart longed for Anchor, grieved for her. He turned his gaze towards Granger, gazing at the stunning elf maiden with eyes of stricken sorrow.

"For a while."


	11. History

_**History**_

The tavern of Arncroft stood aloof and dishevelled, stationed upon a grotty back road coupled to a grimy, grit strewn street. The main hall of the tavern was small, enclosing, the air pungent, choked with smoke and laden with filth. Hernione grimaced, the grime filled air striking her keen senses, the fowl reek of stale sweat and acrid tobacco offering a rather unwelcoming ambiance. Softly she laid a hand upon Harry' shoulder.

"This place is…" she breathed sensing the hostility in the air, the sight of suspicious eyes which fell upon them.

Harry laid a comforting hand upon hers. Together they crossed through the veil of filth towards the bar. The innkeeper fixed each of them with a shady glance. His grey tunic was grease stained, his teeth blackened, eroding. This, doubled with the lingering stench of stale alcohol and unwashed sweat which emanated from him, thus made him as vile as Granger was beautiful to behold.

"Aye?" the innkeeper's eyes drifted to Granger. She pulled her cloak tighter about her person, unwilling to be ogled by one such as he.

"Vacancies?" Harry' tone was rigid, forceful. A man of powerful build drifted up behind Granger, pressed his body close to her form. She turned forcefully, eyeing the man with a steely gaze. Harry wheeled, hand hastening to the hilt of his sword in a gesture of protection and challenge. The man raised his eyebrows in mock fright. He stepped away from Granger, not without taking one final breath of her fragrance. Harry' eyes followed the man. Their eyes met across the saloon, the fellow taking seat amidst a table crowded with louts. The brute raised his tankard in mock salutation, before he and his company erupted into laughter. Harry growled turning away. The innkeeper looked towards the pair with unconcealed amusement, with his thumb he gestured to the back of the tavern.

"You pay now?" stated The Innkeeper, Harry couldn't help but detect a trace of mockery lacing the tongue of the proprietor.

"Aye, a secure room." Harry stated sternly, he held no doubt that Granger was capable of defending herself. But if he could offer her more security from such louts so would he.

"Twelve sterling," Stated the Innkeep, a light smile touched the tips of his mouth. "For a sovereign I can provide more, _private_ quarters?"

Granger's teeth gritted at the extortionate price. Harry gazed towards Granger himself unwilling to pay. A simple gaze from Granger, back to the crowd of bruits stationed behind them spoke to Harry all that was needed. Together both he and Granger united their purses. Harry gave up his last, his only gold sovereign in response to the innkeeper's request. A lance of pain knifed his heart as the Innkeeper pursed the gold. Harry had planned to use that money to purchase he and Anchors unity bands. The Innkeep snorted then, taking a candlestick from an 'abra, proceeded to lead the couple to the more exclusive quarters of the tavern.

Exclusive was a rather _extreme_ overstatement. The sheets of the beds were simple, un-carded wool. The statement of _exclusive _quarters did not stand with the innkeepers words. Dust and filth laden the floors and furniture, stains of some god awful origin plastered the walls. Harry gazed at the innkeeper in disgust.

"You offer us such, for a sovereign?"

There was no mistaking the anger in Harry' voice, The Innkeeper shrugged, turned towards the door.

"Is such, this, or the barn?" his voice grew mocking. Harry stepped towards the cheating Innkeep in fury. Granger caught her companions arm as the arrogant fellow stepped through the door. In spite he turned back, bayed them each good night, and sealed the door in their faces.

"The cheating scum!" snapped Harry, he slammed his fist into the wall with such force he ripped the flesh of his knuckles. "Twelve and one for a hovel!"

"So I see," Granger spoke soothingly her hand drifting across the unmade sheets of the bed. "Forgive me, but the heavens only know what lives inside that mattress."

"Too true," snorted Harry. "Guess it's the floor for us,"

Sliding over a chair from the corner of the room, Harry stationed himself before the door. His eyes drifted towards Granger, who sunk herself into a hard, un-cushioned chair before the small vanity mirror, at the end of the bed.

"The winds of fate issue for every living creature, be they mighty or humble, none is insignificant to fate." breathed Granger though her riddle did none to stifle Harry' fury.

Slowly Granger picked up the hairbrush resting upon the table, cleansed the grime away, beginning to work the implement through her windswept locks. Her every stroke was majestic, her very hair rippling as dark of chestnuts, soft as silk. Harry watched her with agonised eyes, his heart lanced by the loss of his loved one, felt the rage stir within him. Soon he was behind her. Softly his hand found hers, stalled her hand in her combing.

"Tell me more of elves," Harry spoke softly, his very words strained. Granger turned facing him. The agony in his eyes was heart wrenching and she slowly nodded gesturing to his seat up to which he dragged beside her own.

"Many people believe different things, my dear Harry," Granger softly patted his knee before looking into his eyes. "What do you know of Elvish culture?"

"Very little," Harry responded truthfully. "Only the hushed tales storytellers speak around firesides. Tales that the elves were once a proud and noble race, though through corruption their island nation was destroyed, leaving none free to walk the planes of Styria. Yet you live?"

Granger visage grew sombre, her gaze failed to meet his as she spoke, seemingly to the wind.

"More then I escaped the Reaping. I trust that you know the history of the Sacred Three?"

"Again, very little," confessed Harry, his tone apologetic at his lack of education. Granger however gestured airily and continued on.

"Well, legends of the elves state that neither we, nor the race of humans were the first inhabitants of Styria. Elves hale from the continent of Lithailin, a world of greenwoods and tradition."

Granger sighed, her gaze lifting from Harry to the air above, her hands clasped in unity, her words growing laboured with remembrance.

"We fled ancient Lithailin in fear, our continent besieged by the force of Aelai'. We fled, ten thousand strong to the island of Railyon, which is known by your kind as Vallyn. Our sacred spirit so guided us, in the form of a fire bird, we settled, and with the tears of the fire bird one so was formed the heart of Vallyn."

"Once there we existed in peace between the dwarves and their elemental dragon protector. But, I'm afraid to say, the destruction and hatred of the humans of Aelai followed us. Across the High Sea, bringing their own weapon, a sword of insuppressible power, forged, so they say, by their one god the humans lay siege to Styria."

Harry swallowed, hearing the truth within the words of the elven woman, saw the agony in her eyes, felt the anger emanating from her. Her anger at the past. Here, now, hearing of the barbarity of his ancient race Harry felt fury for himself. Granger seemed to sense his anger, softly, comfortingly she smiled into his eyes.

"You need not feel as such," Granger said gently, offering Harry a light smile. "Those which wrought destruction upon the ancient races of Elves and Dwarves; are not this generation of humankind. If you cannot forgive the past you will never press on with life,"

Breathlessly Granger paused, her story halted, gently she breathed. Harry took her hand.

"You'd need not speak more," so reassured Harry of his travel mate, in her eyes so did he sight the flecks of crystalline tears. She wiped away these signs of emotion with chilled indifference. It was then, the sight of such strength fractured by an intense sorrow, Harry sighted true agony.

"It's so strange," Granger breathed tunnelling his fingers through her wealth of dark locks. Harry sank his teeth into the knuckle of his work hand; saw the spawn of true internal hatred within the eyes of Granger, an emotion shared by himself for his own heart. Slowly Harry reached out, took her hands in his, gently he held her slender, elegant hands, caressed her palms and fingers. Her fingertips were coarse, worn rough from years of musical labour, though the rest of her skin was silk smooth, alluringly warm. Harry' eyes raised to meet hers, a light smile crossed each of their lips, lost in internal revelry.

"Stay here." Granger exclaimed, erecting herself, standing from Harry, stepping towards the door. Harry turned, his expression questioning. Granger merely cocked her hip, winked and stepped from the room, leaving Harry alone, alone thoughtful and confused.


	12. Game of Chance

_**Game of Chance**_

Stepping from the conjoined passageway, which united the _exclusive_ quarters of Arncroft tavern to the saloon, once more Hermione's senses were assaulted by the sheer lack of hygiene exhibited in the room about her.

Quietly, furtively so did Hermione settle into a secluded booth, stationed in the corner of the hall. Her nose wrinkled slightly, as she sort to come accustomed to the acrid pocket fog which hung about the air. It was here, silent, separated from the main party, did she begin to eye the tavern keeper.

Still, bathed in shadow, observing, Hermione studied the man who had cheated both she and her companion out of so much. This act of greed stung Granger most personally; the thought of how many other travellers, cold, unwary, how many innocent individuals this man had swindled.

Hermione understood the circumstances which surrounded some pinchers: Lack of homes, starving children, these stories and situations had always wrenched at her heart, drawn forth her charitable nature. But to steal when one was in obvious prosperity, such enraged Granger. It was this rage which she allowed to fester.

From a band girdled at her waist, Hermione slipped a steel hipflask into her grip. Taking a gentle sip from the flasks contents Granger breathed deeply, her whole body trembling with chill at the taste of elven Shendir. The drink was designed using Elvin traditions, and was believed to shore the soul in courage.

Time held no meaning for Granger, she sat shaded and alone, watching the innkeeper as he joshed and joyed with his favourites. Not once did he notice her as he rolled dice, eyed the bosoms of woman, drank his own stale beer. This man was a lout, a sexist, misogynistic brute. A dark smile touched Hermione's lips, her eyes glinted, she watched.

Slowly, joyously the tavern life began to close down, as the intoxicated company leisurely began to depart for the comforts of their own homes. Soon the bustle and clamour faded into a welcomed silence, leaving Lady Granger alone with the innkeeper.

She eyed him sternly her face a taciturn mask. Slowly the mask faded, unveiling a smile of radiant beauty. Slowly she rose from her seat, stepped into the light. The innkeeper visibly startled at the sight of Hermione. She smiled softly at the emotion; her eyes sparkled with promise as she pulled Harry's cloak tight about her person.

"Good evening," Hermione's voice was soft, sultry, her Vallyn accent adding to her allure as slowly she approached the bar. Granger saw it, it was casual enough, a quick sweep of the eyes, but Hermione knew the loutish man was thinking of what lay behind the cloak.

"Yeah?" again his eyes swept her form. Slowly Granger opened the cloak ever so slightly to give sight of her shoulders, united with the simplest hint of bosom. He swallowed, Hermione advanced around the bar to stand closer to him.

"The room of which you rented to me and my companion, I care to renegotiate with you."

The innkeeper snorted riley.

"As I said, that or the barn?" the innkeeper said once more, looking towards the slight exposure of Hermione's perky bosom. "That is, unless you can make me a better offer?"

"I think I can," she drawled her words deliberately, anticipating his reaction. Slowly she let loose her grip upon the cloak, allowing it to fall, unveiling the true beauty of her form. Fantastically healthy, clad in figure hugging leather, the sight of her caused innkeeper to physically gasp, flecks of perspiration dotted his receding brow. This woman's beauty was beyond any other known to the tavern keeper.

"Play with me?" Granger sighed, the innkeeper made to touch her, to grasp her. Granger slapped his hand away forcefully. An impish smile crossed her lips as she slowly drew herself away.

"Play with me, if you win, then you can touch."

"What do you want to play?" asked the innkeeper, Hermione winked. From a small purse at her waist she pulled two items of her own, asking of a third from the innkeeper: A multi-sided die, a dagger of her own, from the innkeeper, so did she request a course cloth sack.

"You stand to win everything on this simple roll of the dice," Hermione said smoothly, reaching up to lightly caress the innkeeper's vulgar visage.

"What is the dagger for?" questioned the Innkeep, his tone cautious, though his self all but lost in the beauty of her smile.

"You'll need something to cut me out of this leather, won't you?"

Mad with lust the innkeeper thought no more. Grasping the die, he rolled. The dark purple crystal danced across the bar, rattled, ran before falling high on a ten. The innkeeper snorted in satisfaction, his smile wrought with mockery, cocksure. His hand lifted to the exposed skin of Hermione's shoulder, caressed the toned allure of her arms, his eyes fell to her bosom again. Granger swallowed in disgust, but allowed his explorations to continue.

"Think you can roll better, little lady?" the innkeeper drawled mockingly, whispering into Hermione's ear. The Elvin maiden looked down, gazed at the die, her face reflective, her heart, her intentions unreadable. Picking up the dice she rolled. The Innkeeper began to nuzzle her neck, knowing it was against the odds for her to roll higher than he. Granger swallowed as the crystal die drew to a stop, falling upon her fate.

In a flash of movement Granger attacked. With intent, Granger slammed down the innkeeper's groping hand upon the bar, while as one she lifted, drove the dagger through the man's open palm. The innkeeper screamed; a terrible, agonised cry of pain. His cries were short lived as, with one spontaneous movement, Granger wrapped the fowl smelling weave sack about his head, stifling his screams. The innkeep plunged into a world of agony and darkness. It would be long into the night that he would see that Granger's toss of the dice had fallen upon the number: eleven.

.

Concern filled Harry as he sat restless, lost in thought at what could have become of his travel mate. In a growl of impatient anger he arose from his chair, grasping his fine sword and proceeded towards the door. He had barely finished unlocking the bolt, when there came a gentle coded rapping upon the door: Hermione's code.

Harry hastened to omit her entrance.

"Where-?" Harry gasped but his words were cut short as Granger tossed a large purse in his direction. He caught the weighted sack in reflex, judged the weight, hearing the clamour of coins inside.

"The Innkeeper was most generous," Granger cooed, stepping past Harry, tossing his cloak over the back of his own chair. "Even told me whom we should visit to carry us towards Leasthart."

"How?" Harry eyed Granger intensely though saw no clue in her eye. His gaze drifted to her leather glove, where it was stained dark with blood. He spoke no more, instead allowed a smile to cross his lips. Granger offered him a wink as each smiled, smiles wrought with a deep satisfaction.


	13. Reunion of Hate

_**Reunion of Hate**_

Harry stirred beneath his cloak, this of which served as his makeshift blanket protecting him against the chill of the evening. Lifting his hands to his face so did he relieve his eyes of weariness. The haze of new day sun sifted rays of gentle sunshine within the grotty, unsavoury room. Harry's gaze fell upon Granger, stationed upon a chair, sitting at his heels, her leg crossed over its fellow, her gaze upon him.

She sat, elegant, ladylike the stiff, hardwood furnishings doing little to disturbed her demeanour. Her sword rested across her lap, her fingers softly patting the white, gold embossed scabbard. She offered him a slight, warm smile, a gesture he returned.

"Sleep well?" Granger questioned of him. Harry propped himself up on one elbow, lifting his weight off the coarse wooden floor.

"I prefer rocks and dirt to this floor," groaned Harry, several shallow clicks sounded as he straightened his spine. "Never did I believe that System accommodations were to be more pleasant than anything in the free lands. But this is a contender for the worst."

Granger chuckled, her eyes bright, warm, gentle.

"Do you wish to bathe?" Granger questioned of Harry, who blinked, gazed towards the washroom set beside the simple room. Harry shook his head, not out of any lack of personal traits of hygiene, his reasons exactly the opposite.

"Better you than me," snorted Harry with a rye chuckle. "Something spoke to me inside that washroom last night, something alive."

Granger rolled her eyes, giggled at Harry's obvious jest. She arose from her seat. Stepping towards the washroom, without a hint of modesty, so did she pull her leather singlet from her frame.

Harry swallowed, his gaze turning to offer his travel mate privacy. Granger paused in the doorway, her nakedness hidden behind the wall except for the flesh of her back. Her eyes met Harry; she winked amatively before stepping into the washroom, leaving Harry with a jolt, a stir within his depths.

The new day sun had fully risen when Harry and Granger stepped out of their chamber; once again each joined the company in the main common room. Harry' eyes scanned the bar for sight of the innkeeper, saw his absence, instead drinks were served by two teenage girls. Harry's eyes met Hermione's, who responded to his question with silence. Harry's instincts bristled; he gazed at Granger's unfazed expression.

"I fear for your enemies." Harry whispered, Granger smiled darkly.

"Then don't become one." Her tone was radiant mockery. She stepped on leading Harry in her train as they ventured back into the heart of the rundown street. "We must find Severus; he is our passage to Leasthart."

The name stirred something within the depths of her travel mate, a memory, a painful stirring of suppressed emotion. Granger had learned of Severus during her interrogation of the Innkeeper. He, Severus, took up his trade as wagon master, a transporter of goods from free-state, to settlement, to city.

Together they approached the wagon masters cabin, directions to which also supplied of the Innkeep. Harry's heart roiled with emotion as he sighted the man stationed upon his porch. The memories returned with crushing force, the scars on Harry's back winched in recollection. Rage heightened his emotions; he stalled, Granger stopped, gazing from he to Severus, confusion evident in her visage.

Severus's gaze lifted, gazed to see who had approached him. His eyes fell upon Harry. His visage grew wrought with terror, fear upon his coarse, weather worn face.

"You…? It… it can't be!" Severus erupted to his feet, raised his bladed straight sword which had been set at his side, his manor wrought with fright, fear, terror. Harry drew his blade swiftly, Granger rushed between them, elegant hands resting upon the strength of Harry' chest.

"You…! No… not you, please!" the man pleaded, Harry snorted, a vicious smile crossing his visage.

"Remember me do you, Whip Master?" Harry made to draw close to the terrified, though steadfast man, Granger grasped his sword arm, sort to restrain her companion.

"Remember Ginny!" Granger whispered, her voice issuing to Harry' enraged soul. Her name, the remembrance of the taking of his love, replaced the raging fury felt within him, replaced by deepest heartache. Harry's grip trembled, he drew himself away, offered his shoulder to Severus, his eyes remaining fixed upon he who he addressed as whip master.

"What history you have with my friend is your own." Granger said sternly, "We are here to speak business."

Severus' eyes drifted from Granger to Harry, he lowered his weapon, turned the blade from them in a show of respect.

"Your travel mate has a right to hate me," Severus spoke brokenly, his very tone agonised. "I was a whip master for the System when he was just a child. I was brutal, I enjoyed my work, I punished without mercy. That is, until the System took from me what I loved. I share as much love for the System as I do for personal waste."

Granger's eyes brightened, sensing a source of help.

"We seek those of the System who have done us a great harm. We believe they travel to Leasthart. Could you take us there, good sir?"

"Leasthart?" the man gazed at Harry, their eyes met, contempt radiant in the young man's gaze. "I have a cargo of battle steel which is ready to travel. But of cause there are the inspections upon entering. No one enters Leasthart without a reason, or without offering some value to the independent state."

"What reasons do ones such as us have to enter Leasthart?" spat Harry turning towards his hated, former whip master. "Couldn't you say you are there to discipline their children? Such is your specialty."

"They already discipline their children in such ways, Potter," Severus spat, himself refusing to be intimidated. Biting the skin of his knuckles Severus slowly looked back at Granger and Harry. "The only hope you have is to enter the Crucible, the arena for warriors and station of entertainment. Only then would you be permitted in without a possible trade."

"Gladiators?" Granger spoke, caressed her lower lip with a slender finger, lost in thought. Turning she gazed at Harry, examined him with her eyes; a smile crossed her visage, a smile of sly satisfaction.

"I think that can be arranged,"


	14. Be Safe

_**Be Safe**_

"This is madness," Harry protested sharply, his words coming in a low, ominous hiss. "This man is a former System servant, how are we to trust him?"

"I trust you," so stated Granger, her tone light, understanding, as in her lap Harry's right hand rested, as she gently, meticulously reinforced his knuckles with layers of heavy linin, cloth and white combat tape. "You each have lost someone to the System, you of all people should be understanding of his agonies."

"These stories he tells," Harry snapped, his voice hushed, conspiratorial, "His tales of woe, speaking of the System and his hatred for them, how are we not sure this is not some ploy, some trick to lure us into his trust. He could be leading us to They as we speak,"

"I think not," Granger said gently, finishing her treatment of Harry's right hand, himself slamming his fist into his already treated left palm. "What I saw in his eyes the moment he saw you, that was true fear, I do not believe any ploy could be so convincing."

Harry snorted riley, turned away. Granger's hand lifted, gently touched the side of his face, turning his gaze to look at her. The gesture was innocent enough, a simple touch of friendship, support, their eyes met, Granger's lips twitched in a light smile.

"Do not allow the past to corrupt your future," Granger breathed gently, stood to her feet, her lips coming to softly touch Harry' cheek. Harry blinked, his eyes following the cloaked elven maiden as she crossed the little expanse which separated them, stationed herself upon the slightly cushioned seat of a wooden bench.

"What ploy do we use to enter Leasthart?" so questioned Harry, Granger crossed her legs, smiled, ran a slight hand down her leather strewn thigh.

"We shall be entering the Crucible under the ploy of champion and sponsor," so informed Granger, Harry raised his eyebrows. Granger continued her explanation.

"You possess the skills, mentality and weapons to be a champion, dear Harry. I, as High Elven Azenor, shall be your proud sponsor,"

Harry's gaze narrowed, he glanced towards Granger, his air dark, brooding.

"You have experienced my taint," Harry stated firmly. "I seek not to harm an innocent, only They,"

"This, shall be something to which we must weather," informed Granger gently, "I wish not to unleash the taint of Ilean, but you are the best hope we have of entering Leasthart,"

"What of garb?" questioned Harry, "Presentable ware and combat armour? We possess little of either," Granger winked.

"This is nothing to fret," stated Granger, standing to her feet so did she lift the seat of the cushioned bench, this in itself was a lid to a rather spacious ottoman. Extracting a bundle from within, with a heave so did Granger toss a heavy cloth sack into Harry' lap. The clang of steel, the rattle of armour sounded from within, Harry felt firm steel and leather beneath his fingertips.

"Your armour, a gift from our travel guide," Granger smiled lifting out another article of clothing. This itself was no sack of armour, instead a delicate, obsidian dress fashioned from water weave rested in Granger's arms.

"Suit up; I want to see how my champion looks adorned in his armour,"

Stepping into a corner of the compartment, the wagon of which they rode, bumping and shifting across the unpaved Southron Lane, so did Harry proceeded to adorn the stern chest plate, gauntlets and greaves of his armour. His heart weighted at the scent of steel, polish and treatment oil, weighted by the memories of when armour once was as familiar to him as breathing. Gripping the pommel of his sword Harry turned to sight Granger.

She herself stood straight, adorned in the dark dress, light from the lantern overhead caught the delicate fabric. It dappled, offered vague sights of flesh, exhibited her toned stomach, the side of her breasts, fused with her like a second flesh, though always preserved her modesty. The dress was a physical tease, Granger wore it well.

The wagon drew to a pause at the side of the road. Glancing towards the curtain which separated them from the wagoner's station, so did they come to sight Severus, drawing aside the drape, himself speaking of refreshment.

The day was young, food, wine and cordials refreshed the company, as they settled beside the travel hut. Harry's eyes fell to his sword, the edge of which he treated with tool, oil and stone. Severus and Granger spoke together, Harry failed to join them, his heart heavy, weighted, troubled.

The crucible loomed clear, dark and menacing upon the distant horizon. Itself a towering granite spire stretching so deep amidst the heavens, that it looked to touch the very kingdom of the gods. Lady Granger sat with Severus at the head of the wagon, smoothed the contours of her figure hugging dress. Leasthart, the neutral state of the Unclaimed North stood dark and oppressive, its walls fashioned from ancient earth born stone, grimed with age and weather beaten where once, upon its ancient erecting the stones would have stood clear and grey. A great reinforced portcullis fashioned from black iron and heavy oak barred their passage. As they approached, two guards crossed halberds before the gate. Their uniforms bore the crest of Leasthart: a sword intertwined by a white rose.

"Who seeks passage into the citadel?" questioned one of the guards from behind his plate helm. Lady Granger spoke with obvious authority.

"Lady Azenor seeks entry to bring my champion to the crucible."

The two guards exchanged glances.

"You are required to register your champion at the registry," so stated the guard speaking firm, reflexive, "Also my lady, you are required to pay an entrance tax, as I trust you know"

Granger blinked, turned to gaze at Severus who nodded in response.

"Very well, we shall register, could you fetch your tax master?" Granger asked with polite authority, she could sense the snigger, the grin hidden behind the guard's helmet.

"There is no reason to trouble the tax master," the guards tone was laced with oily charm. "We can collect your entrance tax."

Granger's smile was cocksure.

"Though I do not doubt you words, good sir, please fetch your tax master. I am rather above board when it comes to matters of my purse. I'm sure you understand?" Granger caught the sallow lilt to the guard's shoulders; saw the authorized guard gesture to his second to enter the citadel. Minutes pass until the younger guard returned, a man of middling years, pated, clad in finery settled in his train. Robes of fine silk, inlayed with gold thread, hung about his person, his bald head beaded with perspiration as he gazed towards Granger.

"I am tax master Ennis," the man before Granger presented a sheet of parchment, upon which was displayed the seal of Leasthart; with it was bore the Tax Masters family name and signature. "I understand you wish to register a champion, my lady?"

"This is true," Granger gestured to the long road behind them. "We have travelled many leagues and come across great hardships to test our metal against the best."

The tax master allowed himself a grin.

"We certainly have the best here young lady," the pride in the tax masters tone was well apparent. "High Gladiator Jarius is un-bested in fourteen crucible tournaments, he is odds on favourite to retire unbeaten."

"Truly?" Granger smiled, gazed at the tax master, he partook nothing sinister in the smile. "This could be an Interesting venture," stated Granger

After paying their entrance tax the wagon was permitted entry. After tossing a silver sterling to the tax master the wagon rolled on past the portcullis and onward into the city of Leasthart.

"Fourteen tournaments? I would like to meet this Jarius, he could be a valuable recruit," whispered Granger to Severus as they passed the main gate.

"Gladiators owe their allegiance to coin," spoke Severus quietly, "I would rather trust a wolf with my throat, than a gladiator with my trust,"

Granger sighed and gazed up at the towering spire. Her gut knotted, her gaze turning to the rear of the wagon; inside she could only hope that Harry was as efficient with the blade as legend stated of those System Tainted.

"_Be safe…"_ she whispered, her words a soft, heartfelt prayer.


	15. Lady Azenor

_**Lady Azenor**_

Severus offered Lady Granger his hand in assistance, as together each looked to dismount the wagon bay ready for the ambiance of the citadel. Without a word of appreciation Granger placed her hand in his, used his strength to safely ease her down to the stable floor.

"Will there be anything else, great lady?" so spoke a humble, polite young stable hand. To Harry's surprise Hermione's response to the youths question was completely alien, so different to what he had so far experienced with her. She offered the young man no words of thanks, offered no signs of even acknowledgment, instead she simply snapped her fingers, at this command so did Severus hand the young boy a single silver sterling.

Harry's brow furrowed at this completely arrogant display of behaviour, it was so utterly different to everything he had come to know of his travelling companion. Harry looked to mention this to Hermione, a harsh look from her followed his questioning gaze, Harry swallowed. This wasn't her uncloaked self, rather a mascaraed, but for what Harry knew not.

Together both Granger and her companions trekked into the main square, themselves in search of the Crucible's registry. Stepping out into the embrace of the citadel, did the three each sight the distinctive signs of unity between the Free People and the System supporters.

Banners of purple, gold, sable and black each hung from brackets stationed above four opposite roads. Upon these banners each was emblazoned a single sigil: A golden lion upon a background of purple, a purple wolf upon gold, a scarlet bear upon black, a black raven upon sable.

Through the streets teams of shielded, armoured Hoplites, these themselves the System's law keepers and army, trudged the street, their hair cropped, faces beardless, as was the requirement, nee forced, trait of the System. Thick necked and well-muscled, the Hoplites marched with an air of commanding importance.

Harry eyed the patrol with an air of contempt, this, however was common to be seen within the eyes of many of the Free citizens. As one, led by Hermione, so did the three navigate the square, stepped towards the Crucible. Before the spire so was stationed a single booth, this they each believed to be the registry station.

Eyes followed Hermione, eyes of bitter, scornful women, who saw the desire clear in the eyes, the demeanour of their husbands. Granger strolled past them without much as a flittering gaze as they crossed the walkway coming to enter the registry.

"Name?" spoke the pockmarked registrar. He sat behind a desk of polished stone, garbed in finery. At first he failed to meet the eye of his questioned company, his concentration more attune to the writings scrawled upon an age worn, leather bound ledger. No name followed his words; glancing up the registrar raised his eyes to meet Hermione.

"Your name, miss?"

"Lady Azenor," Granger spoke her name with pride, her tone an authoritative trill. The registrar raised his eyebrows, eyeing Granger with a renewed sense of interest.

"Azenor?" the registrar questioned in surprise, though Harry could hear the disbelief which laced his tone, he was sure Hermione heard it too, a disbelief which was soon to be silenced.

"Lady Azenor of House Edin, Highblood Daughter of Sir Mardion and Lady Quesare Azenor. State born of Archon."

"I trust you can produce your Arlena?" the registrar leaned back casually in his chair, his gaze still one of arrogant disbelief. It was common for sponsors to masquerade as Highblood Elven's, knew of the great influence they possessed amongst the workings of the Crucible. The registrar expected no less with this woman.

Granger gazed down at the conceited man with rye amusement. Slowly Granger raised her un-gloved left palm exposing the flesh of the crown of her hand. The registrar leaned forward as before his very eyes the once flawless flesh began to gently dissolve. Slowly, so very slowly there exposed a unique golden glyph seared onto her skin. It burned so deeply that it seemed to resonate with the power of her very life-force.

Whispers followed this sight. Hushed voices issued through the shadows, eyes gazed now not at beauty but at something so much more. Harry glanced at Granger, his throat constricted. Her once kind and peaceful demeanour seeping slowly away from his companion, replaced by a shroud of Highborn distinction and stately, unattainable allure.

"Lady Azenor!" the registrar gasped his ink pencil slipping from his trembling fingers, as from Granger omitted an intense, all-consuming air. "Forgive, I did not intend insolence."

Granger lowered her hand, the glyph about her hand dissolving back beneath her skin as she towered over the trembling fellow behind the desk.

"Sign our names," Granger snapped sternly. "I seek to register my champion for the Crucible."

The registrar muttered wordlessly, his hands quivering, the whispers and awed mutters issuing about them. Gingerly, after the log of their names so was Granger handed two bracelets, one of fine yellow gold, thus was hers to adorn, the other a black leather armband which she passed to Harry. The crowd parted like timid rabbits. Granger led her party away from the office, all eyes focused on her as she stepped away her tread filled with pride. From the shadows dark figures lurked, hunger ravenous in their depthless eyes.

"You certainly made an impression," so whispered Severus who stood waiting for them at the rear of the crowd.

"Necessary," Granger responded quietly, pausing to navigate a puddle which she almost stepped through. "We seek the System servants known as They, those things seek elves, what better way to flush them out than by exposing a true Highborn elf amongst their ranks?"

Severus chuckled.

"You hardly need to expose your lineage to attract such attention; any trained eye can tell you are of elven blood, even with your cloaking orbs magic."

Hermione's eyebrows raised in polite intrigue. She eyed her latest companion, his smooth tne laced with a trace of almost parental affection.

"How so?"

"Quite simple," a smile brightened his shaven, stress worn visage, together both Hermione and Severus settled beside the flow of an ornate fountain, the gentle resonance of water splashed upon its fellow, its sound comforting.

"We humans are rugged creatures, rough, unseemly. You, you elves still carry the grace and beauty of the emerald isle. You carry the weight of your loss not in the stooping of your shoulders, but in the sadness of your souls. You hide it with pride and distinction. You see the beauty of the world around you. I've seen the way you gaze at certain people,"

Severus nodded slightly, gazed at Granger who glanced at him questioningly. Turning his gaze away from her his glance drifted towards Harry, he himself stood parted from his companions chosen conversation. Severus patted Hermione's shoulder affectionately, stood from his seat before the fountain, choosing to seek the companionship of his horses, leaving Granger alone to ponder his words. Within Hermione an eddy of confusion began to roil, an eddy which whirl-pooled amidst the depths of her core.

"Lady Azenor?" Harry's voice issued from beyond the depths of her thoughts. Startled she turned to see him standing over her. Her face brightened in welcome offering him the seat beside her, which Severus had just vacated. Harry smiled in taking the seat next to her. The skin of Granger's exposed arms brushing against the crown of his hand. His hand drew slightly, innocently into his lap; the sudden surge of emotions which raced through him rocked the vessel of his unanchored self. Gazing at her companion Granger could still see, shadowing the haunted depths of his eyes, the sorrow and heartache which tormented him. Lightly he brushed back a length of his raven toned mane, his thoughts chaotic, his soul weighted.

"This is one of the few states that have been informed of the elven survival," so spoke Granger, speaking in response to his question, "Azenor is my family name,"

"I prefer Granger." Spoke Harry

She chuckled, hiding her laugh within her hand. Turning Harry straddled the bench to face her fully.

"We'll find her, Harry. I promise." So pledged Granger, Harry breathed deep, he nodded.

"I never thanked you for rescuing me," Harry attempted to take her hand in his. Granger drew her hand away. Lightly she shook her head in response. Harry responded in kind, remembering that as of this day they were no longer friends, but master and tool. He turned away from her, the gesture aching between them. Granger gazed up at the Crucible and pondered what fate awaited them inside the depths of the towering spire.


	16. The Big Four

_**The Big Four**_

"The Crucible operates thusly;" in a display of flamboyance Severus slapped his hand down upon his woollen clad thigh. The gesture was a worn habit, sired from his time as a System enforcer. The gesture stirred a flickering within Harry's memories. The slap, the gesture once was accompanied by the agony of Severus' flesh cleaving whip.

"Gladiators are separated into twelve numbered banks," so stated Severus, drawing Harry away from his troubles. "To fill these four gladiators are chosen at random, so Harry if you were to station bank Three; then you would be the first competitor within, accompanied by said number of other warriors."

Harry gazed at Hermione; she herself offered him a playful wink in response.

"Don't go dying on me, Harry," Hermione teased, "I've got to bet on you to make this act convincing."

Harry sniggered darkly, turned back to Severus as he continued his explanation.

"Don't go dying is a wise precaution," said Severus, his air one of vigorous gravity. "Live steel is the weapon of choice at the Crucible, and although you will be armoured, you know full well that no armour is invulnerable. During the bank duels, the twelve warriors who rank the highest number of points gets pushed through to the knockout stages of the contest. Is all clear?"

"Crystal," breathed Harry low, tense and weighted, "How many times will I be required to fight?"

"Well," Severus stalled, scratched at the back of his neck in obvious unease, "Four times during your time in the bank stage, and, judging you reach the final, another three more duels."

"Seven duels?" Harry questioned, startled. "What of the Taint? What if I lose control and kill someone?"

"Then you shall be stocked, and your sponsor shall be charged compensation to the slain warrior's sponsor. That is, however, if you have a judge who is sympathetic. You could be rewarded greatly for providing a spectacle, if you have a rather more, _twisted,_ judge."

"That is vile," Harry spat in disgust. "Death is not to be praised, nor is brutality to be glorified and showboated, I am not an animal."

"Easy," Hermione cooed, laying a precautionary hand on Harry's own, the privacy of their elite quarters allowing for tenderness. "We are here to find Ginny, remember? We need you to do this to preserve our cover."

"Anchor…," Harry sighed burying his head in his hands, the sheer thought of inflicting death once more a torture to him. Hermione cradled her arm around her companions shoulders.

"Tell me of the Big Four." She asked of Severus. His eyes drifted from Hermione to Harry, sighting the true extent of the damage he had caused to this young man. His heart weighted, sorrow filled his eyes, but now was not the time for sentimental talk, nor to absolve past sins.

"The Big Four own Leasthart," said Severus lightly, slowly he crossed the sitting area of their apartment, to pull a large table across to where Hermione and Harry sat upon a loveseat. Upon the table, from his travel sack, Severus pulled a large piece of parchment, which he stretched across the table.

Upon the parchment was drawn a plain of Leasthart city. Looking down upon the plan Hermione could see that the city was vaguely circular, with the crucible stationed at the very heart of the city. A road wound around the spire in a circle haemorrhaged with streets leading to differing sections.

"The city is divided into two: Farl and Verbena," With his finger Severus divided the city in half. "Farl is the anti-System section of the city, maintained by two leading lines, Marin and Hayter. Verbena is the sections who support the System. Now obviously this comes with all the privileges being pro-System brings: Wealth, power, prosperity, but also answer to the System benefactor and are controlled by a battalion of Hoplite guards."

Severus pointed to the invented line between the two sections, circled the area of the city which he explained.

"All orders are run by two overseers; there line names are Irn and Edmee. This will be the section that are harbouring They and where almost assuredly, we would find Ginny."

"How am I to make contact with members of those lines?" questioned Hermione looking down at the map, her expression vague, unreadable.

"The section of Verbena owns the Crucible; we can start by making contacts there. Also if Harry puts on a good show they are bound to be interested. Nothings better than to have the best fighters under the same banner, as this is the best way of accumulating sovereign gold."

"Too true," Hermione lightly patted Harry's shoulder; it was a tender gesture, a gesture of comfort and friendship. He touched her hand softly. Tenderly Harry rested his head against her hand.

A knock upon the door destroyed any tenderness between them. Hermione rose to her feet. Obtained her chill demeanour, and ordered Severus to open the door.


	17. Rebirthing

_**Rebirthing**_

Her presence was felt the moment she entered The Wheel_,_ the exclusive viewing station of the Crucible, reserved primarily for sponsors and those of distinction and prestige. She walked with regal rigidity, her head held high and proud. With a graceful step, almost a glide, she pasted the other sponsors without so much as a fleeting glance, stationing herself at the very forefront of the party. Lady Azenor sat upon the well cushioned chair as if it were a throne, her manservant standing beside her, strong, intense but submissive in his demeanour, this achieved without bindings, chain, cuff or iron collar. She heard the whispers behind her at this strange treatment of a slave. Their suspicions wrought with whispers of witchery at the submission of any man by a woman.

"My lady?" a voice issued next to Hermione, a hearty, oily voice lifted in veneration. Lady Azenor neither glanced nor greeted the speaker; instead her focus was entirely upon the arena. She clicked her fingers, a swift, authoritative _snap_. At such a command her manservant held out a large hand, ready to greet the gentleman who had approached. The two men engaged in stiff, firm grips, each attempting to better the other, but within moments the oily, rotund gentleman drew away from the contest.

"If I may, good lady?" so questioned the gentleman.

"You may," Lady Azenor said firmly, her gaze still turned towards the arena. At the edge of her sight Hermione sighted the pudgy man shaking the pain out of his mitt. She suppressed her smile at Severus' display of strength. Already she had won the first contest.

"Edmee, good lady, Romily Edmee, fifth of the name, of course you yourself need no introduction."

Hermione spoke no words at such obvious bait.

Edmee raised his eyebrows, the distinction of this woman clearly visible as he turned his gaze down to the arena. His eyes continued to drift to her, studying her.

"Your champion duels in bank seven, is that not so?" questioned Edmee of the elf.

"This is true," Lady Azenor conferred. "I am confident he will progress."

"Truly?" Edmee eyed the lady seeking challenge, his suspicions slowly dissolving. "My champion, High Gladiator Jarius duels in the final bank. Do you dare test your champion against mine?"

Hermione's visage remained clear, impassive. With another strident_ click_ of her fingers her manservant produced a fine drawstring purse. The purse was weighted, and with a heavy _flump_ he dropped the purse down upon the thick beamed rail which wound the wheel. Edmee's eyes drifted greedily, ventured to both she and the weighted purse. Her eyes continued to gaze away, but there was no denying the challenge in her voice when she spoke.

"Five hundred sovereigns says my champion bests yours."

...

"_Together, forever_," Anchor's words drifted to the forefront of his mind, as Harry sat inside the chill cell which was his holding pen, while he waited for his calling into the arena. This time however, it was not reeds of binding love which bound his hands; instead bandages of thick, coarse linen wound tight, hardened with layers and strips of white tape, offering protection for his knuckles if he were forced to fight hand to hand.

The smell of treatment oil, the scent of hardened leather invaded his senses, drew forth memories, distancing himself from these Harry gazed down at the servant girl's finished work.

"Thank you," Harry breathed looking down and examining the servant's precision and skill. She blinked in surprise. She was only a child, a girl of no more than ten and three winters past. A collar of thick iron was fixed about her neck, from the object of imprisonment chains of steel ran to cuffs, locked at hands and feet. The bonds offered her only the slightest of freedoms, freedoms enough for her to perform her duties, though restricting her ability to protest. Such displays of barbarity enraged Harry he could see the fear in the girls eyes, the agony, he reached out and tweaked her red curls.

"Sir?" The girl's voice cracked fearfully, he could see the terror flood her visage, the pain of expectation. Slowly she rose to her feet and reached for the clasps which fixed her dirt stained dress.

"Stop!" Harry snapped reaching out and grasping the girl's hands. "What are you doing?"

The girl blinked, gazed at him obviously confused.

"Sir? You are displeased with me. I will fetch someone else; do you require some younger girl?"

Harry drew back, horror struck, his face wrought with disgust.

"You will do no such thing," Harry said gently, speaking softly so as not to alarm her timid self. He looked at the girl, her form a sickly sight, willowed frame, timid face, her broken soul. How many other children were being destroyed here?

"After my duel, bring me food and water, as much as you can bring." so stated Harry, hoping that his tone was gentle.

The girl nodded in acknowledgment and turned away, her chains rattling, body arched beneath the weight of her bonds, as she left the cell. Harry felt bile rise within his stomach. Anger surged within, slowly, savouring, he breathed, the rage boiling deep within his core. Anger he would evoke upon his enemies, knowing now that he had seen true evil.

The strident cry of silver horns signalled the call of the arena. Inside his own cell Harry stood in quiet deliberation, the door to his cell unbolted. Slowly he turned to see Arena Master Wood enter.

"Your number has been called," spoke Wood firmly. Harry balled his fists, gritted his teeth in rebellion to the bourdon placed upon him. His thoughts were that of his dear Ginny, only of Ginny, with these final, sombre thoughts his resolve steeled. Nodding in acceptance Harry followed the Arena Master to his fate.

He stood before an iron bound gate, the passageway lit by the flickering light of oil lanterns. Slowly, the grind of metal gears turning and chains ringing, the gate began to lift. With every gradual inch Harry felt the roil of dread, apprehension flutter fiercely within his core. The sound of rowdy spectators heightened in anticipation for the next spectacle. Finally a burst of cheering reeled him; the gate slammed open, Harry swallowed and, with a final steadying breath forced himself to step forwards, out onto rake smooth sand.

The sound of innumerable spectators cheering, applauding and roaring in unison overwhelmed Harry. His eyes struggled to adjust from the smoky darkness of the tunnel to the near perpetual glare of the sun sheened arena. Bars of sunlight illuminated the arena, the sheen reflected from strategically placed mirrors set into the walls. Harry's heart rocketed into his throat. So many people! Here to watch him fight or die. His mind reflected on what Hermione had spoken about her own race, that the elves were a corrupt and barbaric race. At such a sight Harry felt just as much for his own society.

Across the battleground the gate opposite Harry opened, omitting his opponent. Harry swallowed at the sight of his foe. An adolescent of ten and six winters, he entered the arena with flamboyant energy, an air of intense arrogance emanating. The crowd roared at the young showman as he charged side to side, lifting his sword in salute to the wings of the arena. Harry frowned slightly to indicate his own disapproval. Finally the youth ceased in his show-boating and offered a casual, carefree view of his armoured torso.

"I'm sorry friend," chimed the youth turning his sword in flamboyant circles as he spoke. "But I'll be claiming the points tonight."

Harry's visage darkened. He gazed at the youth through lowered brows and drew his sword.

High above them Romily Edmee chuckled lightly at the interaction between the two combatants.

"Your champion seems intimidated, good lady."

Lady Azenor spoke no words, instead with another snap of her fingers her manservant set upon the rail another purse, this one much more weighted than her original stake. Once more she set the purse down upon the rim of the wheel. Her attention focused totally upon the two contestants below.

"A thousand sterling says the youth falls." Lady Azenor spoke in quiet assurance. Romily Edmee drew his own purse from a pocket, matching Lady Azenor's intense stake.

"Confident?"

Hermione said nothing, her back rigidly straight, her hands resting upon the arms of the chair. Within Hermione's heart clenched with dread, her hopes and faith resting with Harry alone.

…

The two gladiators eyed each other, a whispers edge separating the tips of their blades as they gazed into each-other's eyes, hoping to see fear, or some other sense of weakness. The youth saw none of this in the intense depths of his opponent's gaze; instead Harry' eyes tunnelled into his, eyes intense, piercing.

The youth attacked with a swift slash his sword leaving Harry's own to aim for the exposed flesh of his opponents left arm. Harry reacted on instinct. With a swiftness attuned to the trained warrior, Harry drew into the danger zone, the space between he and the youth. In haste the former Ilean locked the young man's sword arm, Harry's own curling around his elbow, drawing his foes own straight, tight. Harry forced the youth to relinquish his hold on his sword, using his back to bend his foes arms unnaturally, painfully. The young warrior was totally exposed; trapped, true fear entered his eyes. Harry lifted his sword, smashed the jewelled hilt of his blade down into the young man's face.

The youth collapsed to the arena floor like a wet sack. A spray of crimson blood erupted from both nose and mouth, broken; blood marring Harry's armour. The once smooth sand of the arena drank the crimson eagerly. A precaution unnecessary Harry kicked the youth's sword from him, the boy sprawled at his foes feet, broken, defeated. Silence filled the arena, all eyes focused on Harry as he stood over his fallen foe. Slowly Harry raised his sword in salute of his sponsor. A roar of approval followed.

Lady Azenor's man servant gave a little display of pleasure, himself reaching for the purses which rested upon the rail. Drawing them into his person his eyes drifted to Edmee. The sizable gentleman's expression was one of sickened disbelief. Edmee stood, gestured good naturedly to Lady Azenor before stepping away from her company. It was only then that Hermione allowed herself the slightest hint of a smile.


	18. Secrets and Names

_**Secrets and Names**_

The water was cold, ice cold. Harry's skin was neither dirty nor sweat grimed, though still, the presence of armour, the feel of the youths blood upon his skin, drew from Harry a feeling of filth and uncleanliness, thick and soiled.

Pitchers of soothing water he poured upon his wealth of raven hair, across his travel hardened, scar crossed frame. A gentle, timid knock sounded upon his steel door. Harry rose from the indention, enveloping himself in a choice flannel robe, as he stepped towards the door to meet his visitor. The young slave girl stood laden beneath plates of rich meat, united with flagons of wine and spring water.

"Let me help you," Harry said gently emptying her young hands of her bourdon, before granting the little girl entrance. She carried the flagons gingerly, so as not to spill any of the precious contents. Harry set the bowls and plates of food down upon his bed-board before turning to smile at the child. "Help yourself."

She gasped bound hands flying to her lips in shock; she visibly trembled before the warrior.

"Sir I… I dare not, I…" she stammered.

"Help yourself," Harry insisted lifting a plate containing a side of fowl, offering it to the girl. "I am a gladiator, what I choose to do with my food is my own affair."

The child swallowed. Her eyes darted from the food to the door. Harry saw the hesitation in her eyes, the fear of terrors unknown to him. Harry felt his rage lift, lifted for the treatment of this child and others found within the walls of the Crucible.

"Eat." The girl looked at him with solemn eyes before, with trembling fingers took the meat from the plate. Slowly, with timid bites, the little girl began to eat, eyes insistently darting towards the door. Harry watched her as he sipped from a flagon of wine. He studied her, watched how she savoured the flavours for her food. Her trust deepened, herself becoming more adventurous, savouring food, grapes, potatoes and even wine.

"What is your name?" Harry asked of the girl while together they sat, piled amidst so much food upon the stone floor of the cell. Despairingly the girl lowered her hazel eyes.

"No slave bares a label," said the girl gently, gloomily. "I've never had a name."

Harry reached out, his touch coming to her shoulder.

"Then I shall give you a name," The girls eyes brightened as she gazed at him. Harry sat in quiet thought, gazing at the girl, his eyes drifted across her slim face, her gaze shadowed, framed by a wealth of crimson curls, while he pondered her title.

"How does the name Susan feel?"

"Susan?" She sighed breathing the name, it was as if it melded to her person, felt her heart connect with the name at once. "It's nice."

"It fits." Harry sighed laying a hand upon hers. For the first time a smile crossed her lips, the effect lifting her gloom to show a radiant, youthful visage. They spoke no more; themselves content to continue their feasting.

...

"Your champion duelled well," snorted Romily Edmee, falling in step beside Lady Azenor, as she and the rest of the sponsors departed The Wheel; seeking convocation and refreshment.

"I am, satisfied," spoke Lady Azenor gently, gesturing silently to her manservant. Severus nodded and stepped towards the bar, thus leaving Hermione alone with Edmee. "Would you care to up our stakes?"

"Fifty sovereigns is a mighty large wager, what could you possibly have more valuable?"

Hermione's visage grew shaded.

"Secrets," her voice was lowered, her lips covered in a display of eloquence, though there was none hiding the conspiracy in her words. "Secrets which could benefit you and me."

"Is this so?" Edmee whispered into his fist, their conversation melding amidst the hearty atmosphere of the lobby. "What secrets good lady?"

The lardy fellows intrigue intensified, saw the formation of a smile cross the elven maiden's well cut mouth.

"Elvish secrets, secrets which I know your benefactor strives."

"Aye," Edmee ran his fingers across his many chins. "Perhaps this should be discussed in stricter confidence? Shall we?"

Hermione nodded, Severus set down her drink down at the bar and approached. Together the three exited the Crucible out into the cool autumn air of Leasthart.

"Perhaps the shrine?" offered Edmee of Lady Azenor, in concordance she nodded, allowing him to lead through shadows of early evening towards the elven shrine of reverence.

Within the growing darkness so did shadows shift, formed that of living souls driven by a thirst for blood, elven blood.

"So then, what are these secrets?" questioned Edmee of Lady Azenor as they entered the Aisle of the shrine, himself speaking for the first time since they had left the lobby of the Crucible. Hermione turned, gazed at him in the eye. It was here that Edmee knew that the Highborn elf's business was serious, herself willing to slight her traditions by gazing at a human. Slowly, with eloquence Lady Azenor began to pluck the fingers from her fine lace glove where, upon the air lit the beautiful radiance of Illylithium. The sheer sense of grandeur, the lust, the glory that filled Edmee as he gazed upon the beautiful orb set against her soft Elven skin.

"I offer the Elven secret to you," Spoke Lady Azenor, softly setting back her lace glove and dampening the sheen of the orb, fixing Edmee with an intense gaze. "For a price."

"Which is?" Edmee's eyes, ravenous the sheer splendour of Illylithium, surged with greed as he eyed where the orb rested. "Name your price."

"I seek They," said Lady Azenor gently, "I offer Illylithium in exchange of knowing their location."

"I can grant that," chuckled Edmee, no sooner had he spoke then Hermione felt terror's shrill touch, her heart, soul filled with the presence of They. She wheeled sighting two of the three elf hunters slowly entering the shrine, swords drawn, faces shaded. Hermione turned back to Edmee who smiled in rye amusement.

"Elves fetch such a pretty price," chimed Edmee mockingly. Fear flooded Hermione; she turned from him to the creatures who advanced upon her. She fought down the fear as she turned from them, turning to face Edmee and his exulting grin. She was trapped.


	19. Freedom and Reunion

Freedom and Reunion

Harry felt the bitter chill surge through him, lacing his soul with an icy thrust of dread. In haste he erupted to his feet, ushering little Susan behind him as he made for his blade. The elf hunter entered his cell, its grace ill, haunted, sword drawn, jagged and vicious. Susan gasped, fear rushing through her at the sight of the creature. She clutched tight to Harry' side, himself taking a ready stance, thoughts of feasting replaced by a renewed sense of heated rage.

"Where's Ginny?" Harry issued defiantly at the creature. It shrieked, a terrible, soul chilling cry of battle, as harsh as rending metal. It lunged.

* * *

Hermione huddled against Severus, himself shielding the elf with his frame, her once proud elven demeanour giving over to terror evoked from the presence of the tainted scourge. The two creatures surrounded them, their terrible faces hooded, depth-less, their silence a psychological terror. All the while Romily Edmee chuckled, his hands ringing with glee.

"Take the girl, kill the slave but bring me her Illylithium. The Benefactor will reward me highly for bringing him the secret of Elven magic."

Hermione's face visibly darkened. She shot one deep, venomous gaze at Edmee. The creatures released their terrible cry in response. Edmee stepped from the shrine, himself pausing before a vessel filled with Elven holy water. Dipping his hands into the still pool Romily cleansed his hands of sin, leaving the two, Elf and companion, helpless in his wake. Hermione buried her head into Severus's back, his hand found hers in a reassuring, fatherly gesture of hope. Though no hope existed within her fear had claimed her, her will broken, she began to weep.

The first creature suddenly shrieked. Hermione's eyes lifted. This was no cry of combat, more a piercing, agonised scream of pain. Granger gazed at the creature, itself double over, the shaft of an arrow embedded in its back.

"Need a hand gorgeous!" Hermione's heart lifted in joy. The sweep of an arrow sped past her cheek, struck her rear foe. She raised her gaze, a shrill cry of relief left her throat at the sight of her companions: the flaxen haired Skylar and the youngling Tika, standing at the crown of the shrine. Skylar, longbow drawn, knocked another arrow and fired it before he charged head long into the fray.

In a single, seamless action he un-sheathed his short sword, flicked it into the air. Severus caught it gracefully; he and Skylar took up position on either side of Hermione. Bow and sword ready in protection.

The twin hunters attacked, blows filled with vexation. Severus parried the strike of the jagged sword, using his great strength to drive the creature back. Skylar pushed Hermione back, arching under a swing of blade, upon his erection so he stabbed the monstrosity in the face with his arrow.

"Need a hand?" Tika called across the battlefield sarcastically.

"Funny," snorted Skylar loosing another arrow into Severus' foe as he did. "If you would be so kind!"

Tika cocked her hip, caressed her right arm. Forcefully she raised her arm to the heavens. Evoked from the youngling so the sky above grew chaotic, filled with the gathering weight of magic and force. Thunderclouds blossomed from a once peaceful air; they swirled, caught in a whirlpool of power, opening unto a great rend in the heavens. Lightning rained down from the sky in terrible streams of energy, roaring amongst her comrades, striking the elf hunters with the fury of nature. The creatures screamed. Wraith-like they fled, seeking the safety of shadows, leaving the companions worn, Hermione swallowed, relieved, her fear loosening.

Hermione collapsed to her knees, head in her hands in self-disgust, but all thoughts of self loathing malformed with concern for her companion.

"Harry!"

* * *

Susan screamed in fear. Harry locked swords with the elf hunter, its jagged blade catching on the smooth surface of Harry' own weapon, forcing his weapon down to slash across the humans torso. Crimson tears seeped down the warrior's bare chest. Harry ripped off his robes, fastening them around his waist in a skirt-like fashion. His body exposed no armour to offer protection, his foe vicious, blood thirsty. But it could see that its opponent was skilled, the cunning creature turning its attention to the other, weaker human.

The creature lunged towards Susan. Harry, rage heightening his actions, surged forwards in a stiff side kick. The blow, struck with perfect technique, drove Harry's heel into the creatures spine. The monstrosities body arched beneath the force of the blow, ribs splintered, droplets of ichor winging into the air wrought from the creatures throat, its body driven into the solid stone wall. The elf hunter jolted back, it hissed, turned to face its attacker. The former Ilean shielded Susan behind him, the slave girl whimpering and weeping in fear as her protector stood firm, strong.

He felt it before his eyes gave sight of the source. A severe, radiant energy, intense, ominous, its sheer force one of chaos and destruction. Harry turned in expiation, ready to face another foe. To his surprise Mistress Luna stepped into his cell. Her stride sleek, graceful and powerful. The creature before Harry stalled, exhumed a frightful wale, turned jittering, cowering before the diviner as she approached.

Mistress Luna seemed to swell, to grow in power until she appeared as a venerable giant. Her arms flew open in a billow of silk. Harry's eyes seemed to haze, upon the billow of silk so seemed to appear the presence of translucent wings, her once vibrant blue eyes filled with an icy white nimbus.

"Be gone," Mistress Luna spoke firm, intensive, her voice somehow doubled. A great stream of luminescence consumed her. The creature walled, squealed timidly before the diviner.

"Be gone!" thundered Mistress Luna once more, the creature fled at these words, its scuttle terror-filled, bat like and screaming. Harry gasped, allowing the strength to fall out of his form, himself overwhelmed. Mistress Luna stepped forward, offering Harry arm as he slowly steadied himself.

"What did…? How…?" Harry stammered.

"In time," Mistress Luna spoke gently, soothingly as she pressed her hand to Harry's wounded chest. Warmth entered his body, as of a kind, lazy summer's day bathed in sunshine. He glanced down at his chest to see the wound totally and completely healed. "We must go; your companions wait for you."

"Wait, Susan, I can't." Harry turned towards the little girl who stood willowy and dishevelled. Mistress Luna stepped up to the girl child. Reaching forth, the diviner lifted the chains which bound her frame.

"These are not fitting bracelets for a child," cooed Luna. To Harry's astonishment, the chains seeped from her form like sand through fingers. The little girl gasped, feeling her throat, wrists and ankles, her chafed skin healed, her body straightening. Tears welled in the young girls eyes, the sheer shock of freedom almost too much for her to grasp.

"Come with us little one, your fate is yet to be completed." With these final words Mistress Luna swept from the cell, Harry and Susan following in her train.


	20. Corridors of Power

Corridors of Power

Hermione exclaimed in relief. Throwing her arms about Harry, she embraced him dear, thankful to see that he had not been injured, captured or worse. He returned her embrace with equal relief before pulling away, his face wrought with concern.

"We must flee," stated Harry firmly. "We know not when those things will return."

"Flee? Where?" protested Hermione, her words frightful. "Edmee will have the entire city on lockdown by now, we are trapped."

"If I may, good lady?" questioned Mistress Luna of Hermione. The Elven maiden turned; her confusion evident at the diviner's presence. Welcoming any sense of help Hermione nodded slightly. Gracefully the fate reader wandered past those gathered, stepped towards the main alter stone of the shrine. Upon the floor was a small golden discus, inscribed with the flowing, fair script of the elves. Kneeling, Mistress Luna began to pry the disc free from its foundations. The stone slowly unveiled, allowed the blossoming of a glowing silver glyph set into the foundations of the shrine.

"A Silva Gate?" Hermione breathed, a light smile touched the edge of Mistress Luna's mouth. Slowly she pressed her palm to the glyph. The flowing design morphed, bloomed, formed that of a glittering, hazed gateway, itself opened upon the very fabric of the air.

"If you would?" Mistress Luna bowed, the air before the Silva Gate rippling. Hermione paused, eyed the diviner cautiously. The woman offered Hermione a slight, warm smile, a sly wink. Hermione swallowed; slowly, cautiously she led her party through the magical doorway. Harry stepped through gingerly feeling a sudden submerged sensation, the same as one plunged into water. He stepped out unto a grand gallery, decorated with ornate marble pillars complete with colourful mosaic footing. Harry gasped, gazed about him in awe at the wonder which surrounded him.

A number of arched corridors haemorrhaged from the gallery, their depths shaded as Harry took in the panelled walls, the ornately decorated ceiling. The air around the company hissed with some deep, ancient magic. Mistress Luna was the last to step through the magical gateway. With her presence inside the gallery the gateway dissolved, Luna clapped her hands together. It was not a strident gesture, but so quiet was the room that the clap echoed profusely amidst them.

"Welcome to the Corridors of Power," Mistress Luna spoke, stepping amidst the company, gesturing openly at their surroundings. "Think of this as a stop gap between travels. You are welcome to take up rest, refreshment or others. But I digress, I'm sure words of reunion are needed above any other."

Mistress Luna spread out her hands before her in a gesture of good will and friendship. Taking heed Hermione and her companions drew each other into a uniting embrace. Tears glistened in Hermione's eyes, her gaze shifting to each of them in turn, joy and adoration giving over to friendship and camaraderie. All the while Harry, Severus and Luna stood apart watching the scene. The girl Susan threaded her hand into Harry's he glanced down at her soft, reassuring.

"My friends," Hermione spoke finally gazing at each of them in turn. "Joyful am I at our reunion, but please, tell me of yourselves, what news do you bring?"

"Much, each more terrible than the last," said the hulking Kingsley, reaching out to place one of his massive hands upon Hermione's shoulder. "Rumour has it that the sword of Aluna is due to be passed over at the winter solstice."

"So soon?" gasped Hermione. "But what of their champion? Surely they have not found one in such-"

Hermione paused in her words, sighted Tika's silent signal. The sign was part of a new breed of communication developed between Hermione and her companions, enabling them to speak in silence. Tika's gesture, which the four spectators could only decipher as a fleeting wipe of her face with her hand spoke: Who are the strangers. Turning back to face the others, Hermione smiled brightly, gestured for the reunion of her friends to follow. Each by each she introduced her new companions to her hoariest comrades.

* * *

Harry was thankful to finally discard the ragged flannel robe, which had been protecting his modesty, for a sturdy pair of britches as he wandered from one of the many rooms the Corridors of Power offered. Mistress Luna had spoken both to him and the company that the items amidst the rooms were unrestricted and could be taken at will, a thankful circumstance of which Harry welcomed. Stepping along the panelled corridor, clean shaven and refreshed, Harry could just make out distant noises along his candlelit way. A soft, gentle blues melody, a guitar played with tenderness and obvious skill. Venturing into a quicker step, Harry soon stepped through the ornate archway which marked all corridors, stepping out into the atrium beyond. What rested before him drew a light smile to his visage.

Hermione sat upon a pulled up wooden chair, a guitar slung about her person, resting so casually upon her thigh, that it looked for all as an extension of herself. Before her sat Susan now adorned in finery and grime free, a look of wonder on her face as she observed the elf. Hermione strummed her heartfelt melody. The music was beautiful, gentle harmonic's ringing like star strewn bells, before she fell into a soft, gentle solo. The solo wrenched at Harry's heart, spoke of love, tender moments and happiness. Hermione slammed her foot down upon the distortion peddle at her feet, and, in sliding down the frets, held a note like the impassioned cry of ecstasy. Harry gasped, the sudden change of melody, from peaceful tenderness to passionate energy, reeled him. Hermione sensed his unease, ceased in her entertainment, glancing up to gaze in his direction.

"Harry? What ills you," asked Hermione of Harry as Susan climbed to her feet, running to embrace him. Harry caressed the girl's tresses, now tamed by a clasp of fine silver but it was to Hermione of whom he spoke.

"Your music has so much emotion." Harry breathed, Hermione smiled.

"Tis what makes us who we are," Hermione stated proudly, caressing the fine fingerboard of the guitar.

"Aye," Harry continued to ruffle Susan's hair as, together they came to sit before Hermione. "Play some more, please, I wish to savour your talent."

Hermione smiled, a warm brilliant smile. Slowly, she drew the guitar back to her person and began to play once more.

* * *

Upon the chime of the twilight hour the company gathered within the Corridors war-room. Dominating the expanse resided a grand circler table festooned with an expansive, three dimensional map of Styria and her surrounding children. Mistress Luna stood at the heart of the company where, slowly she began to mark out the most important landmarks which rested upon their journey.

"We now exist beyond the world of Styria, ourselves both one and yet so much apart," stated Mistress Luna. "Such is the way of the Silva Gates. Upon the use of any such gateway a respected Sage can travel great distances; so long as one of their own Silva gates exist to greet them. So shall you venture forth through my own gateway."

"Do you not travel with us, great lady?" questioned Hermione of Luna. She, Luna turned to regard the elven woman, her gaze kind, thoughtful.

"I have not been requested to do so," stated Luna, lightly. "I would not simply press my company upon people; I only go where help is needed."

Hermione blinked, realising the simplicity behind Luna's words. It was simple etiquette. Hermione had naturally assumed that the diviner would follow them onward, had not sort to request her help. In such a revelation Hermione couldn't help but feel slightly foolish.

"Will you accompany us?" requested Hermione of Luna who gazed upon her, her face reflective.

"I shall," the whole company seemed to exhale with relief. "I dare say you may find me useful. Do not be fooled by my youthful visage. My spirit has seen many things, both joyful and barbaric. Though still trust not just in me, trust in yourselves, your friendship, such will be your true saviour."

The young girl child, Tika issued a derisive snort at such words. Luna turned gazing upon the youngling.

"You do not believe in the power of friendship?" questioned Luna of the little one. Her words were gentle though they issued with a soft, evocative melancholy.

"I believe in personal strength," stated Tika, drawing herself up proudly. "One can have a legion of friends, but it takes a single mistrustful soul to cause the destruction of empires. A single soul can climb mountains, misplaced trust kills indiscriminately."

"You speak with the wisdom of one tainted by loss." Luna gazed into the child's eyes, Tika's own gaze intense, searing, as dark as nightfall, as strong as a queen. But it was she, Tika who turned away, the gentle light of understanding brightening the Mistress' vivid blue eyes. She offered Tika a light, knowing smile before turning back to the map and the venture south.

"I trust you know of our next heading, great lady?" questioned Luna of Hermione stepping aside, allowing Hermione the heart of the table. Upon taking the offered marker rod, Hermione proceeded to outline all of the basic plot points upon their venture.

"Now, as many of you understand, the final protection the Unclaimed North possesses is Starrbow Loch. This expansive waterway protects us from the advancement of The System. It is here that we travel."

With the marker rod Hermione showed the necessary distance crossed between Leasthart and Starrbow Loch. To Harry's measurements, taken from the distance rule at the base of the map, Starrbow Loch existed no less than forty leagues distant travel. Hermione gazed towards Harry, offered him the slightest, heartfelt smile and spoke.

"I have valued both your protection and friendship dear Harry. Understand I have no intention of breaking my promise to you. While my friends continue with our cause I shall help you find your dear one."

Murmurs of outrage followed these words. Skylar, Hermione's flaxen haired companion issued his own retort of protest, Kingsley speaking of the irreplaceability of her guidance, wisdom, the unity of friendship. The only one who remained silent was the young girl child: Tika, who simply looked on, eyes of shaded obsidian.

Susan lightly gripped Harry's hand at his side. He glanced down, ruffled the girls curls, looking down upon the young child, Harry saw her eyes fill with a soft, silent plea. Her eyes wrought with companionship, trust and devotion. His heart rent at her gaze, it was the kind of look he had always imagined he would see within the gaze of his own children. He sighed, raised his free hand for silence.


	21. Offered Words

Offered Words

Mistress Luna raised her voice in song, a soft, haunting melody. Within all gathered, the company consisting of friends, allies, strangers, all felt the inner well of awe, a deep lift of respect issue within their hearts at the diviners talent. Upon the very air, manipulated from the arcane so was wrought a glistening, ghostly Silva Gate. Forged from secrets, a talent sired from a teaching unknown to those of lesser understanding, so did the diviner come to stand before the rend. With a sweeping, airy bow of grace so did Mistress Luna offer entrance to her newly wrought passage.

"Those who wish to continue, step through," so stated Luna, her voice filled with wisdom, lifted with power, wrought with care. "Behind you is offered a return to normality, beyond this gateway you leave yourself to the will of fate."

Lady Granger was the first to step forward. With a soft, simple nod so did her carriage strengthen; with a graceful, elven stride, Hermione stepped towards the Silva Gate. She paused, fingers reaching forth to caress the ethereal portal. The gateway sifted, slipped through her fingers as simply as arcane smoke. Turning her gaze she sort Harry who stood amidst her fellows. Her heart grew weighted, felt his own weight of sorrow, saw it deep within his eyes as he gazed towards her.

"You come of your own choice?" Hermione questioned speaking not to the company, but to Harry alone. Slightly, Harry raised his chin in a silent acknowledgement, speaking no words, none were needed.

The questions Hermione had asked herself long since her exhibition of their destination had yet to be answered. These were questions she had not asked, knew that only Harry could answer. Slowly, a slight smile touching the corners of her mouth, Hermione stepped through the gateway leading them all forward. Once more both Hermione and her following company experienced the sudden, frightful submerged sensation as, one by one, they followed through the portal.

Harry exhaled sharply as the stabbing bite of chill wind sliced him. He shivered, his hands wrought with cold. His eyes opened to find that he kneeled within a dune of snow. The wind whipped fiercely at face and frame, itself flecked with shards of chill ice.

"Where…?" Harry questioned, looking about him, the sheer depths of snow impossible to comprehend. How was this possible? They had only resided away from the physical plains for a single nightfall yet this… it was…

"Take my hand, friend," a slick, smooth tone sounded over him. Harry's eyes lifted to sight Severus standing over him, offering a hand in assistance. Harry's first instinct was to strike the hand away, feeling nothing but scorn and disgust for the man before him. But… his eyes drifted towards Hermione who stood, her form locked in the tremors of cold. Saw her slight look of meaning.

Harry took Severus's offered hand. With great strength the former Whip Master hoisted the warrior to his feet; they stood eye to eye like enemies thrust into a forced camaraderie.

"It was my duty," Severus said gently, his tone almost felt in shame. "Understand it was nothing personal against you."

"Tell such words to my memories," stated Harry, his tone was final, intense, laced with deepest contempt. He stepped past Severus only to feel the intensity of eyes upon his back. Lightly he stepped towards young Susan, his icy touch coming to her cheek as she clutched lovingly to his side.

"Are you angry?" Susan questioned of Harry, her friend, he offered her a light smile.

"Only with some people, little one,"

"Are you angry with me?" the little girl almost whimpered, light, girlish, sorrowful. Harry chuckled fondly.

"No, not at all."

"Move Out!" Hermione's voice thundered over the gathered party, herself standing at the helm of the gathering. Harry offered the little girl a slight wink, then, herself light, fragile within his grasp, Harry hoisted Susan onto his shoulders, as he and the company set off once more.

The company pressed on for some time, the unity of gathered snowdrifts uniting with the slick, icy footing of the road, integrated to offer hazardous, uncomfortable travel. Each were chill, irritable, sullen beneath the beat of ice strewn wind, or mounds of winters fall.

The party stalled beside the road, moist, selves wrought with hunger and irritation as the third day of travel slowly died. Harry, stationed beside the unlit fireside, gently added kindling and torn birch bark to the unlit fire. Drawing upon flint and stone Harry began to grate. Sparks and heated flecks danced across the fuel, slowly catching and heating into an intense fire.

Exhaling a sigh Harry turned to face Susan; the little girl sat gently, quietly before the diviner Luna, as the woman slowly ran a comb through her long, Celt blood hair. Harry smiled gently, hoisting his sword onto his lap. Drawing the fine blade from its black scabbard, Harry began the treatment of his weapon. Behind him Lady Hermione and her companions were engaged in quiet talk. It was only then, with ears pricked did Harry overhear their discussion.

"This is lunacy!" Harry, caught between the treatment of his blade and curiosity, heard the scorn issue within the voice of the youngling, Tika. "These people are slowing us down. At such a pace we shall miss the Winter Solstice and our chance of intercepting the System champion."

"What would you have me do?" Hermione's voice was sorrowful, agonised, though she showed not the true strain leadership bore upon her.

"Wait until nightfall and leave them." stated Tika; her words hanging dark within the ambiance. "We can make a better pace on our own," Harry listened to see if Tika's words were met with support or otherwise. His guess, much to the words and utters of her fellows, was that Tika's words had not been met with the support she so desired.

"You would have me leave them defenceless on the eve of winter?" Hermione's tone was scornful, Tika though replied without faze.

"It is better than death and slavery at the Systems hands, if a new champion is pledged." Tika continued her outburst briskly. "It would be a mercy for them, what of that child? She is barely a woman, what use is she to us?"

"You were once so young, dear Tika," stated the voice of Skylar, Hermione's flaxen haired companion. A low, deep growl of fury issued from the party: Tika's scorn.

"I am fond of the child," spoke Hermione her tone absolute, final. "My friend Harry is a skilled warrior; also we know not the true extent of Luna's power. I would much rather travel in numbers than become a traitor of trust."

A snort sounded from amidst the group Harry knew to be Tika's, her final retort. The sound of a disbursing group issued from behind his station. Beside him sat dear Hermione, her fine visage wrought with a slight smile.

"You heard?" Harry nodded slightly, Hermione laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder. "She can be cold, but she is far from cruel."

"I find that difficult to believe, if one is willing to abandon a mere youth to the elements."

Hermione's gaze was gentle, eyes filled with sympathy. Harry' eyes returned to his blade. Hermione's gaze fell to the leather bound hilt of the sword; sort the strange internal glyph which shimmered amidst the depths of the jewel, set within the pommel.

"I have never seen your blade so close," Hermione spoke, words slight, gentle. Harry' lip twitched as he handed Hermione his sword. The woman handled the blade with the air of one accustomed to weapons. Slowly, turning the blade down Hermione began to examine the pommel.

"This is an elven glyph," Hermione stated gently, turning the blue sapphire over so as to send shards of moonlight through the stark white glyph.

"This blade is of elven origin," Hermione stated drawing the blade free from its scabbard, examining the stark, black blade. Hermione, face wrought with concentration studied the glyph with wonder.

"I have never seen this mark before," Hermione spoke, her word wrought with awe, sided with respect and adoration for the craftsmanship of the blade.

"Anything interesting?" so came a soft, gentle voice off to the side of the gathered pair. Both Hermione and Harry turned to sight Mistress Luna standing near, her hand resting upon the shoulder of the youthful Susan.

Hermione nodded and handed the diviner the sword.

"I have been educated in the art of elven glyphs," Hermione spoke an air of bewilderment clear in her voice. "Though I am yet to see this glyph in all my years of study."

Luna offered Hermione a sweet, gentle smile.

"It is no wonder," stated Mistress Luna as she slowly turned the jewel in the moonlight. "This glyph is ancient, a forgotten symbol crafted well before the Reaping. Its name is Valduin, the warrior star."

"The warrior star?" Harry questioned his breathing gentle as he slowly took the blade from Luna.

"Guard well, friend Harry," Luna stated offering Harry a slight bow. "May its rays bless and keep thee."

Harry's gaze met Hermione's, herself seemingly as bewildered as he himself. Slowly, Mistress Luna turned, took her place beside the fireside, speaking no more.


	22. Duel of the Dead

Duel the Dead

Upon the eve of Starfall, leagues hiked by both foot and hitch travel, so found the company resting at the crest of Galway Tor. The vast, steeping mound had been humanly crafted, created some centuries past, itself once resting as an outpost and station for the former Winged Brethren, set at the heart of the plains of Arostal.

Many of those gathered welcomed the simple comforts the ruination offered, itself a shelter from the ice strewn wind. All but Mistress Luna settled at the core of the structure, content to eat, rest or sleep, away from the chill of the elements. The diviner, herself the only one unwilling to rest, glanced around nervously, feeling the walls of the settlement, her air rippling with power, strength arcane, as that of Illylithium, though her fellows saw no sign of Sage Stone usage.

"This place," Luna said her voice trembling, as with a lace of fear. "This is an evil place. There has been much bloodshed here."

Hermione gazed at Luna with an expression close to pleading sorrow. Luna sighted the bedraggled, worn, exhausted weariness seen within the eyes of her companions. Her air remained un-eased, though she did relent in her warning, herself settled away from the gathered, her eyes shifting about her.

"Why is Lady Luna so concerned?" so questioned Susan speaking to Harry, who sat stationed beside her. The warrior suppressed a shudder at the thought of the beings which inhabited battlefields. None had come to name them, themselves simply spawned when the life's spirit cannot return to the stream, itself un-carried back to earth mother. These beings sired when fragments of their wandering spirit returns to their bodies. Themselves locked within the bitter shackles of death, though cursed to wander, seeking strife and destruction with their every, shuffling foot fall. Harry did not feel that the little one should be subjected to the true horror of these abominations, even in only the breath of legend, lightly Harry ruffled her hair, offering her only a warm, light smile.

Finally, the company could settle down to warm, comfortable sleep. All the while however Harry remained awake, himself unclaimed by slumber as he gazed from beneath his blanket to the walls of the Tor. Whispers were told among the free people, stories of the great Alpha - Omega, the great Dragon Tamer herself, the legendary Lady Seraphina; legend stated that only she possessed power great enough to tame the fury of the mighty Elemental Dragon, Mekarth. Drawing back the sheets of his bed, stepping out into the moonlight so did Harry find Hermione standing, gazing across the sheer expanse of the plains before her.

"You also lie un-eased?" questioned Hermione, herself speaking in recognition, turning only slightly to sight him as Harry slowly drew beside her.

"My thoughts are troubled," Harry informed stepping up to gaze upon the star strew sky, which stretched on unceasingly before their eyes.

"You believe you have abandoned your loved one." Hermione spoke unquestioningly. Harry nodded, his fists clenched tight beside him.

"I want her back; I need her back, but also, I feel a deep responsibility to you and, I don't know why."

"People feel things they don't understand, do things which go against their beliefs for better or worse. You may-"

Hermione broke off; Harry stirred, he heard it, a deep guttural moaning in the darkness, the sound of shuffling, shifting feet. The sound was everywhere, issued amidst the darkness of the night like the call of nightmares. Hermione issued a cry of warning. They appeared from amidst the crags and breaks within the settlement, eyes void of life or colour, flesh putrid and rotting, teeth bared in ravished hunger.

Harry drew his sword, Hermione her own. Together they stood, back to back, turning to prevent a full enclosure.

With a roar of challenge Harry charged the creatures. His boots pounded, beat a strident rhythm upon the broken flagstones of the settlement. Amidst his charge Harry felt the Ilean taint claim him, dragging him away from light, down into the depths of darkness as his blood roared with battle lust. This was his purpose, his entire reason for being.

Harry allowed the hunger for battle to consume him. Gave him utterly to the fight. He became one with the flashing streak of his sword. Dancing, parrying, cleaving skulls, opening throats and breaking bones. He transformed himself into a dervish of destruction amidst a sea of rotten flesh and putrid viscous matter. His many foes however, though wounded did not fall or draw back in agony, instead they continued to charge, thoughtless, lost to all but their own desire to feed. Harry passed through them like a spirit sifting through the fabric of worlds, though they continued to attack, despite the horrors inflicted upon them at the streak of Harry's blade.

Blinded, furious Harry felt arms about him, strong, powerful, constricting arms. He thrashed, growled, screamed in battle rage, his sword fall unceremoniously from his hand. Harry heard voices, distant, muffled voices. Slowly the taint began to relinquish its hold upon him, sight returned to his eyes where once all was darkness and shadow. He found that he was in the arms of Severus, himself being dragged forcibly away from the battle, Hermione and the others in full retreat.

"You are brave, foolish, but brave." Complimented Severus, slowly the sheer impact of such an intense position struck him, Harry collapsed limply into the void of darkness.


	23. Concern for Luna

Concern for Luna

The air was tranquil, quiet, the soft gentle ambiance broken only by the caress of water upon the shoreline. Harry's eyes opened slightly, offered sight unto an alien chamber. Simple, the celling low beamed, fawn toned, his gaze turned to behold a vision. Quiet, peaceful, head resting slightly upon the side of his bed, so she slept. A slight smile crossed Harry' lips; gently he reached forth, his touch coming to rest within the crown of her hair.

Soft, silken, toned the shade of ripe chestnuts, so his fingers allowed her strands to seep through his fingers. Gently she stirred, Hermione's gaze lifting, visage wrought with happiness, eyes of intense brown bright with joy.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, taking his hand swiftly in her own, touching her lips pleasantly to the crown of his hand. "You dear, dear fool!"

"Hermione?" Harry breathed, his voice was hoarse, throaty, still tainted with Ilean's dreadful presence. A sigh escaped her lips as gently Hermione touched his face, his cheek with a tender caress.

"I'm so glad you've awoken," Hermione's voice was magical, a light gentle trill, rich, accented, so beautiful that at that time Harry could listen everlasting to her talk. "You stupid, dear friend."

Tears brightened within Hermione's eyes; slowly she pressed her brow to Harry's own. Emotion surged through him, rich, vibrant, intense, he reach up, wrapped his arms about her in a dear, awkward embrace while she whispered words of thanks, thanks for deeds he could not recollect.

"Where are we?" questioned Harry hearing the gentle rush of water, sea, lake or river, these of which he could not guess, also a beautiful neighing issuing upon the wind.

"We have come to Starrbow Loch, the last divide between Unclaimed North and System South. When we fled the Shamblers we stumbled upon a friendly wagoner who carried us to the Loch. I have nursed you since you fell into darkness."

A light knock sounded upon the door of the bedchamber, shaking the two away from Hermione's recollection. Hermione offered Harry a slight nod before offering entrance to the person beyond. Severus entered, carrying a bundle of freshly laundered linen, offering Harry a small, slight smile.

"Our warrior awakens," so stated Severus. Harry turned away, his final memories centring upon Severus, the strength of his self, how he had hurled him away from the battle with the deceased walkers. Hermione sensed the tension between the two men, lightly her hand caressed Harry's dark mane.

"I owe you my life," stated the shaken Harry. It was clear that the very thought went against his every principle, though still he continued in his acknowledgements. "If it wasn't for you I would have been consumed by the deathless ones."

Severus possessed enough guile to look fractionally awkward with Harry' statement.

"I did what any companion would do for any other," spoke Severus his voice though raspy, contained a trace of care, tenderness even friendship. "I have no desire to see you die."

"I shall repay my debt, sir." Harry and Severus gazed at each other, the animosity in Harry's eyes replaced by an intense sense of honour.

Severus nodded, without words exchanged the former Whip Master stepped from the room, leaving them alone together. He, Harry, turned his gaze his eyes centred upon Hermione, her hand slowly, tenderly caressed his brow. Weariness overtook him as gently his eyes closed once more, his body still exhausted from the force of the taint, slowly he settled back into sleep.

* * *

"He is resting," so Hermione informed the others, themselves gathered within the Lakeside inn, about a large table set with drinking vessels. Harry's young friend, Susan stood, almost knocking aside her vessel of cordial. But before she could shuffle away Mistress Luna laid a soft hand upon her shoulder.

"Later, little one," Luna breathed, her gaze lifting from the child to Hermione. "What happens now, great lady?"

"We set off the moment Harry recovers,"

"Set?" Luna's voice broke, for the first time the others started, gazed towards the diviner, a lace of fear wrought Luna's tone as she breathed. "Do we cross Starrbow Loch?"

"We do," so informed Hermione. Luna swallowed, placed her head into her hands. Her breath come slightly, she stood, stepped away from the gathered, stationing herself away from the company, gesturing the attention of the barman. Eyes followed her, gazed upon the diviner as the innkeep handed her a large bottle topped with a drinking glass.

Hermione's eyes met Skylar's, himself as confused as her, Hermione gazed at each of her companions. The company followed the silent gesture and stood, leaving Luna alone.

* * *

An abrupt shock roused Harry from sleep: the sudden splash of icy water dousing his face. He gasped from shock, surprise sitting up sharply, looking to see who had roused him so tersely. The young girl child Tika stood beside his bed, an empty water glass cocked in her hand.

"What in the name of Hex do you think you're doing?" Harry snapped viciously turning to sight the young girl who merely shrugged.

"You've slept long enough, we need to move," Tika informed, her gaze penetrating. "Wanted to make sure I did a thorough job. The Passover ceremony takes place in three days time. We must leave Starrbow Loch within the hour if we are to intercept the System Champion."

Harry groaned burring his sopping face in his hands, he glanced up saw that the child had not moved, nor seemed willing to spare him the privacy he so craved.

"Would you care to leave so I may dress?"

Tika's eyebrows raised in mock innocence.

"You have nothing that will frighten me, little man." Harry exhaled a grow of frustration. Tossing back his sodden sheets he stood; forcefully Harry seized the lapel of Tika's tunic, forcing her from the room. The youngling offered little protest, leaving insults and jeers in her wake. Harry slammed the door closed in her face, pressed his back to the wall in relief.

"_She's a nightmare_!" he breathed, settled himself, proceeded to the ottoman at the base of his bed, where upon which his blade and clothes lay waiting.

Stepping down the stairwell from the upper tier bed chambers, so Harry came to the saloon of the inn. Harry was surprised to find Mistress Luna stationed at the bar, her usually refined, ethereal presence replaced by a wretched, pitiful air of dread.

Harry stepped up to her, saw that she sat ached over both a reservoir glass and a bottle of highly potent, half consumed Absinthe.

"Is such wise before a journey?" Harry asked inquisitively, though with an air of concern as he observed her, feeling the ambiance of fear emanating from deep within the depths of the diviner.

"I can't swim," Luna squeaked, brokenly taking a large gulp of the bright green beverage. "My father threw me into Saul, the white lake, to teach me to swim when I was a child. I nearly died. Only my gifts saved me that day. I've been terrified of water ever since."

Harry swallowed, hearing the true terror within her confession. Perturbed by such a dilemma, how was she to cross Starrbow Loch if she was so utterly afraid? Harry placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

"I could blindfold you," Harry said gently, Luna turned, sensing a source of help. "If you cannot see the water it cannot frighten you. Also while we cross you can sit by me. I can swim, I will protect you."

Luna breathed, cupped her hands as if in prayer, her eyes closed tightly, steeling herself against the coming ordeal. Slowly, Luna nodded, before downing the rest of her drink.


	24. Aberforth

Aberforth

Harry's first sight unto the guardian of the loch reeled him in surprise. The creature loomed, its neck elongated, serpentine, its form matted, grey, colours shifting as that of living storm clouds. The leviathan's eyes glinted, themselves the shade of rippling jewels, filled with peace and goodness. The creature neighed, though the melody was strange, as that of whale song, its tone wrought with innocence. Beside him Mistress Luna softly spoke, speaking answers to his silent question.

"Latanya, the guardian of the north," so breathed Luna, her tone harmonious, wrought with wisdom. "So the elven folk have come to name her. It is said that while she exists to guard Starrbow's waters, no evil may pass over."

"If this is so, how is it that They may enter?" Harry spoke, his voice rich was awe, his gaze never leaving the towering Latanya.

"There are ways around Starrbow's expanding boarders," Luna informed, "Narrow streams, tributaries from Starrbow as its depths are fed. These tributaries can be silently crossed by small forces. But to try and cross an army into the north via this way would be the height of folly. This is why the Unclaimed North has remained so named."

A shout from near the shoreline caught their attention, together Luna and Harry turned to sight Skylar and Esteban, themselves leading the rest of the company towards the docking crane. Mistress Luna physically trembled at the thought of crossing those waterways. Harry threaded his hand in hers, offered her hand a slight squeeze, together they stepped towards their companions.

Harry cradled Luna close, herself trembling violently in fright and terror as slowly the loading platform began to lift. Luna's eyes were blindfolded as they were hoisted into the air. Forcefully Luna tightened the strip of leather across her eyes. Slowly, gently; Harry guided her towards the edge of the transport station. The Latanya issued a soft, ethereal cry with the seating of the company. Gently, with everybody stationed the beast set off.

Tears seeped down the face of Luna as she sat trembling while slowly Latanya ferried the party, itself swimming effortlessly, seamlessly through the glittering expanse of the loch, its heading the unclaimed shoreline of System South. Many of the company offered words of consolidation and support, Hermione come to sit beside the blindfolded diviner, stroking her hair and offering comfort. The beast seemed to be swimming at an agonisingly slow pace, the expanse of water seemed to last a lifetime.

Harry growled in frustration and annoyance, willing Latanya on, himself concerned, fearful for Luna. Finally after so long, the beast settled at the Port of Aron. Luna was the first to disembark. The moment Luna's feet pressed against solid earth she doubled over, ripping the blindfold from her eyes and issuing a torrent of vomit.

Hermione came beside her, resting on her knees alongside the retching Luna, her touch coming to caress the diviners back, offered words of comfort and support. The others, even Harry stepped back, knowing Luna needed the treatment of a tender hand. Severus caught Harry's eye, offered him a slight smile. Harry nodded slightly, though within, his stomach knotted. When at last, a trembling, wretched Luna climbed to her feet, brushing back strands of dishevelled golden locks; Hermione turned feeling the eyes of the populace upon them.

Harry felt it, the air, the ambiance, the fear within the people. This was System territory, though Aron was a free state, it was the only Free State within the southron empire, and the company were strangers amongst them.

"What business brings you to the South?" so questioned a tall, aged fellow, himself dressed in the garb of an officer, while he laboured to stay erected with the aid of a cane.

"We seek the life of empowerment," Hermione stated gently, Harry swallowed, this story alien to him, though many of the others nodded in agreement. The elderly officer gazed at them, his pale eyes shaded.

"Come," the elderly gentleman turned, led the party on towards a single, well refined building to the east of the main square. The ancient officer pressed the back of his hand to a sensor, set into the frame of the doorway. A sense of dread, of fear began to roil within Harry's core. He watched as the door opened with the will of the F-T-U-V chip. The officer opened the door to the building, bayed them entrance. For a moment Harry fought the urge to run, swallowed and stepped through with a shove from Kingsley.

"Hermione!" once the party were within so the elderly gentleman exclaimed with the sealing of the door. His voice was raspy, age worn, but wrought with care and affection. Hermione turned offered the old man a courtly bow, his eyes sweeping over the company, his gaze settling upon Susan.

"You've brought a little one, is that wise?"

"Youth is the future," Hermione stated gently, "But we respect our elders."

"Elders?" The gentleman issued a low, joyful chuckle, as if shared in some private joke. "Get in now, all are waiting for you."

Hermione stepped towards the elderly man, placed a light hand upon his arched shoulders. The old man grunted lightly before drawing Hermione into a deep embrace.

"I've missed you, Aberforth," Hermione breathed, a deep smile playing at her lips.

"Elders?" chuckled Aberforth, "You outstrip me by years, though your still as fresh as a spring rose, damn you elves."

"Anyone else pass through?" asked Hermione herself seemingly enjoying her sniggers with the elderly man. The gentleman took a playful swipe at Hermione with his cane before stepping past the elf, stepping towards a set of stairs, leading towards the lower levels of the building.

"Vaart came through a number of days past, asked if I'd seen you. I'd almost gave up hope, Lady Azenor." So addressed Aberforth, Together the company followed the old man into the adjoining cellar, where stocked to the hilt with provisions. The elderly man began to rummage about boxes. He grunted, grumbled to himself when finally he drew himself back, a look of success evident in his eyes.

In his hand the gentleman brandished a sizeable pouch and water skin. To Hermione so he proffered these items.

"Vaart left this in my possession in hopes you pass through," so he stated, Hermione drawing the pouch and water skin about her form.

"I thank you, friend," Aberforth cupped Hermione's face a look of affection evident in his eyes.

"Go now," so he spoke, gesturing to each of the companions. Hermione nodded and turned to face her companions.

"Tika, if you would?" addressed Hermione. Tika nodded, her thunderous air strangely humbled, stepped away from the party of travellers. Drawing herself to her knees, the youngling opened her arms out theatrically, eyes closed, tongue laced with words of power. The ambiance of the cellar grew weighted, heavy with the presence of Illylithium. Drawing a gasp of shock from Susan, so the company become encircled by a steady stream of shadow.

"What's happening!" started Susan herself huddled into Harry's side. Streaks and streams of energy thundered about the company, surrounded them, consumed them until, with a final crash of thunder, the roar of lightening, Tika lowered her arms in flamboyance.

Almost as if they had fallen, the company crashed, not upon flagstone footing but upon mason work, surrounded by gloomy shadows. Tika slowly erected herself the sight of her dishevelled comrades almost amusing to her. It was then, beyond the ring of thunder in their ears that each heard it.


	25. White Tamer

White Tamer

The melody issued upon the air like some sweet, otherworldly serenade. Soft, wrought with age, peaceful, tranquil in its harmony. To the ears of those delighted by the melody so did they find themselves lifted, transcended to a plane of amity, filled with a sense of nirvana, Elysium.

"So beautiful…" Tika gasped her voice void of anger, the pain which defined her, speaking more as that of a woman of peace, harmony and love. Harry drew in a soft, gentle breath. Not since Hermione's music had he heard anything so beautiful. But this was something else, something ethereal, something beyond the realms of normality, itself spiritual.

"Dwarven music," whispered Luna, not willing to disturb the subtle melodies which they enjoyed so much. "They play not with steel as they elves do, but with instruments forged from nature, what we hear are the pipes of the Dwarven Chieftains."

"You never mentioned Dwarven music to us?" Skylar spoke addressing Hermione, almost affronted. Hermione turned, her eyes rolling in rye amusement.

"I did not speak because I care not for their simple, lung blown pipes," Hermione scoffed in a tone Harry had never heard her use before, it was almost scorn. "Present us with a guitar, bass and drums and the elves will exhibit true music, this music is too slow, too simple."

"Well said, dearest Azenor," Hermione turned, within the large, brick formed room of their surroundings, so a figure stepped from the conjoining arched doorway. He was tall, standing at least a foot taller than Hermione herself, and almost at head height with Kingsley, the tallest amongst their company. He wore the rich garb of a High Elven, silk, satin, chased in gold and silver thread. His hair was of a flaxen so burnished it seemed almost silver. Eyes of vivid jade danced with strength, youthful delight, his ears elegantly tipped his visage fair, untouched by blemish or strain. Hermione stepped towards the elven male, himself uncloaked by Illylithium, his eyes bright with welcome.

"Deartháir Fáilte," so spoke Hermione in a tongue alien to many of her companions, though Mistress Luna offered a slight, knowing smile. The stranger cupped Hermione's face softly, pressed his lips to either side of her cheeks. Harry's stomach knotted, he breathed; saw the affection pass between Hermione and the Elven male.

"Vaart, dearest brother, how you've grown," Hermione spoke in the common tongue. Harry's gut untwisted, he breathed as Hermione turned, bayed her kin welcome to the rest of the company. Vaart seemed to resonate charm with just his seamless grace. Around him the music continued to play. The high elven offered welcome and words of salutation to each of the company. When at last he came to Tika his eyes widened in adoration, softly he took her hand.

"Your beauty is a beckon that thus outshines the very stars," Vaart raised Tika's hand to his lips and offered it a light kiss. Hermione raised her eyebrows, sighting the faint hint of rouge tint which touched the cheeks of her often prickly companion. Vaart stood back, gazed at them all then nodded in seeming satisfaction.

"I see you are entranced by our dear friend's melodies?" so stated Vaart speaking of the wonder he saw in each of their eyes. "Shall we proceed, dearest Sister?"

Hermione nodded; together the company followed the elven male away from the chamber, onward amidst the corridors beyond. The sweet, ethereal music seemed to lift the further they ventured on, growing sweeter and more beautiful. Finally Vaart stopped outside a large, oaken door, fashioned in a circle set into the brick, itself adorn with many fine carvings. The music seemed to resonate from beyond the portal, soft, magical, wonderful.

"The chamber of our Dwarven companions," spoke Vaart his hand pressed gently against the round seal, knowing of what they desired. With respect so did he rap upon the door. The music died suddenly, harshly, leaving a hollow, empty sadness within the hearts of those who truly appreciated the majesty and the art.

The oaken door opened to reveal a squat, clean shaven, work worn fellow with a thick, stony brow. Beyond him rested a room filled with wooden furnishings and hand crafted instruments. He was garbed from head to foot in raw hide, his cladding secured seemingly by a number of leather thongs and rough leather belts tide at waist, bicep and thigh.

"Hale Goiran, Dwarf friend what becomes of you?" haled Vaart merrily, offering a salutation to the dwarf. Perched upon a short stool behind Goiran sat a woman, she also bore the hallmarks of Dwarven kind, herself ripe with child. Her hair, chestnut brown and wiry, rested much like Mistress Luna's braid, though the Dwarven female's hair seemed to have been roughly shortened as if by her own hand. The male dwarf, Goiran grunted in reply.

"Elf, what do we owe for this intrusion? Have you come to ragger us once more?" the Dwarven male's voice was gruff, hard as stone, as strong as steel, nothing like the sheer gentleness of the music they had heard resonating within the air.

"No dear Goiran." Vaart held up his hands in innocents. "My dear sister's friends were enticed by your music. Each longed to see who played such sweet melodies."

The stone faced dwarf's scowl softened, observed the collected party.

"Is that so?" questioned Goiran. "Dwarf music is special. We play from the heart, unlike those noisy, uncouth things the elves call guitars."

"Have you ever listened to a guitar?" snapped Hermione hotly, unwilling to have the music she loved so dearly be insulted. To her remark the dwarves recoiled, clutched their instruments.

"We hear enough of such noise in young Vaart's playing," spoke the dwarf female sternly. "Elven music is wild, vulgar, uncivilised. Should any of the elves ever witness the grand symphonies of the Dwarven masters then they would hear true music."

Hermione growled low under her breath, herself allowing the insult to pass. The dwarf bay the party enter his family chamber, under the circumstances that they come to listen. Hermione and Vaart remained outside with Kingsley, the others entering the dwarf chamber.

"Wood," so Goiran said, lifting a beautifully carved ebony flute from a station of pride, presenting it to his intrigued guests. "Is the most valued commodity amongst Dwarven society. As you can imagine, dwarves are indigenous to the mountains of the east, our very bones are forged from the living rock of the mountains. We slave away with a relentless crashing, whine and pounding of hammer and drills as we unearth precious metals, jewels from the earth. We live without greenery or trees; feel not the gentle touch of the breeze against of our faces. So when we seek entertainment, when we seek peace, solace, away from crashing sound of tools, the very monstrous noise the Elves love so much, we seek the melodies of flute, pipe and others. We love wood because we have so little, so is why it is treasured so."

Harry swallowed, touched by the dwarf's heartfelt confession. Never had he given thought to how different the three races truly were. The Elves, wild, savage with their crashing guitars and pounding drums, Dwarves who sort a release away from such noise, finding peace and beauty amongst that of which the elves and humans took for granted. His race, caught within the grasp of the System, beaten into relinquishing their own identity. Harry pondered, did he himself even have an identity? The question shook him, the stout dwarf came to stand before him, offered the flute for Harry to examine.

He took it gently, ran his fingers over its exquisite workmanship. The flute was carved to perfection, an object as beautiful as any gold or silver sculpture. Ivory, woven gold wrought its detail, its polished, gloss sheen dark, glistening in the gentle light of the room.

"Amazing…" Harry breathed handing the flute back to the dwarf. Goiran, pleased with the compliment, smiled at Harry before handing the flute to Mistress Luna. She seemed to handle the flute not with care and awe, but with trained, well accustomed fingers. She eyed the flute quizzically then smiled at Goiran.

"May I?" Goiran looked taken aback, glancing behind at his wife, the woman nodded, allowed her consent. Luna placed the flute to her lips, with skilled fingers and subtle breaths, so she began to play. Harry saw it, the shook seen within the eyes of the dwarves at the first notes. The melody was beautiful, peaceful, soft and sweet, but the dwarf's reaction to the music seemed to be not peace but more fear and rapt respect.

"White Tamer!" Luna stopped playing slowly. Goiran reached for Mistress Luna's hands, placed gentle kisses upon the back of each of her hands, this strange reaction followed from the Dwarven woman. "We… we have nothing to offer you, great Lady, except our prized instrument. Please accept it in our deepest respect."

The others gazed at this display of respect with confusion, Mistress Luna smiled, a trace of embarrassment clear at the dwarf's sudden respect and adoration.

"Please, I ask for nothing, I simply wish to share in your culture, all cultures, such is my duty."

"Please, White Tamer! We beg, take it in honour." The dwarves stepped back, bowed their heads low. Mistress Luna eyed the dark flute, nodding her consent she turned, faced each of her companions. Luna pressed the instrument to her lips and began to play once more.


	26. Secrets Revealed

Secrets Revealed

A simple tin wrought bath filled with fresh, steaming water greeted Harry as he stepped into the chamber which was to be his own. The room was brick strewn, devoid of scent or fragrance, void of many materialistic comforts. A single mattress rested within the corner of the room, the other containing the bath and copper of water. The mattress was simple, straw filled, covered with a blanket of soft, fresh cotton. Harry sighed.

Drawing off his travel garb, woollen britches and tunic alike, so did Harry come to cleanse himself of the feel of adventure. Refreshed, face free from growth, Harry drew on the simple cotton vest and beaten hide trousers which had been presented to him. It seemed strange but not since his entrance to the Crucible some number of weeks prior, did Harry realise his own lack of garb. He frowned, dismayed at such a thought. Harry was a man of principle, of ethics and pride. The very thought of being labelled something so insulting as a ponce grated him. A mental note was taken, to find some way in which he could prevent such insults. Harry, girding Valduin to his waist, stepped from the chamber and out into the adjoining corridor beyond.

"Companion Harry," a voice haled from behind. Turning slightly Harry glanced back to sight Severus as he approached. The man looked, for himself, refreshed, his face also cleansed of the growth of the road, his form clad in a simple cotton vest and firm woollen britches. This garb did much to accentuate the great strength housed within the man's form. Severus offered Harry a light salute, a friendly gesture as he stood before his fellow.

"We are summoned to the Council Chamber," so stated Severus. "Sir Vaart and Lady Hermione wish to speak strategy,"

Harry nodded, with a gesture prompted Severus to lead on. The two re-joined their company within a plan strewn chamber. This, Harry knew, acted as the war room for the gathered. Maps and diagrams festooned the walls of the chamber while, upon a great circular table, there rested a large, crystalline model of a city. Hermione nodded as Harry and Severus entered the chamber, gesturing for each of them to join the gathered.

"Currently," so stated Vaart, gesturing airily to the model before them. "We sit some twenty meters below the crystal city of Bale. It is hear that High Vennegoor Cane shall present the sword of Aahmes to the newly anointed Champion."

Vaart gestured towards a rendition of the Great Square. Harry blinked, but found the altering rendition of the city less surprising than perhaps he once would. The model writhed before shifting to a beautiful crystal interpretation of Bale's great square. The model depicted a splendid, ornate forecourt, strewn in a number of colourful mosaics, stationed in a diamond formation; placed at each tip of the square so sat impressive monoliths depicting the form of proud lions.

"The High Vennegoor comes through the Main Gate via parade, to enter the great square in preparation for the Passover ceremony," So Vaart continued. "A contingency of Hoplite guards will be stationed around the square to protect the High Vennegoor from harm. They shall be expecting frontal and even Slum side attacks, but nothing is taken place to prevent a magical bombardment. Hoplites are not augmented against magic attack; this is where we have the advantage."

"We have power within our friend Tika and the diviner, but can even their power break a phalanx?" spoke Kingsley gazing from Tika to Luna.

"A Hoplite wall is strong." Harry stated, all eyes turned to him who himself gazed towards the model, envisioning the placement of a Hoplite phalanx, "I've partook a position within a phalanx. They stand eight men across and four men deep, even if you had an army of rebels bearing down; I doubt that we'd be able to break through the first line before our force is slaughtered. What power can compete with steel and muscle?"

Tika turned; her expression shaded, then in a single motion proceeded to remove her worn, grey tunic. All but those who truly knew her, gasped at the sight which was unveiled. Tika's body was wrought with inserts of hundreds upon thousands of Illylithium orbs. The Sage Stone gems glinted like jewels in her skin, their sheen a beautiful iridescence of power. Tika gaze turned to Harry.

"Now you know my secret, and the power that I offer," Tika's words were rich, filled with strength, vibrant with power as slowly she redressed, hiding her secret once more behind layers of wool and leather. "I am the most powerful sage in Styria the Hoplite wall is nothing before my might."

Tika's words hung low, stern, and ominous within the air.

* * *

The remaining days waiting for the companies strike upon the System champion sifted by at an agonisingly slow pace. Moods began to heighten, human dwarf and elf all grew restless and uneasy, some, such as Hermione and Goiran chose to settle their own escalated nerves with an indulgence within their favourite past times. Some, such as Severus and Vaart took it upon themselves relive the minor details of the coming strike.

Fighters, warriors, those that would lead the charge on the Hoplite phalanx with drilled, some augmented with fresh orbs of Illylithium. On the eve of the final day's preparation the air grew sick with anxieties. On this day, the final day of anticipation, no songs were sung, no cheer was heard, all that sounded within the coarse stone chambers was the sound of prayer and the clash of steel on steel.

Harry himself prepared himself in the ways he knew. Cleaned, his wealth of raven black hair combed, Harry knelled, unclad upon the rough stone flooring of the community sleeping chamber. The sword Valduin, the warrior star, so he touched gently, a single hand pressed against the pommel of the blade. Gently so did he whispered his oath, intrusting his safety and honour to the strength of his blade. Standing, his oath pledged, so he re-clothed in simple leather and cotton, lifting the blade effortlessly into his hand.

* * *

"Close the door," so stated Hermione firmly as Harry paused slightly, her tone alien to any he had ever heard her use. No pleasantries, no light-heartedness, nothing but stern business. He sealed and bolted the door behind him a place within the circle of humanity opening to permit him entrance.

Hermione stood in the centre of the circle, the pouch she had received from the elderly gentleman Aberforth held lightly in her hands. Slowly, Hermione reached inside the worn hide sack to reveal a tiny ornate Jewellery chest, this of which she cradled cautiously in her hands. She swallowed and faced the party.

"I have gathered you all here for a purpose." stated Hermione firmly looking at each of them in turn. "You six are my most trusted companions. You've travelled with me though unknown dangers. Now it is my liberty to ask one of you to face danger for me one final time."

Slowly, Hermione unclasped the lid of the chest, with its opening so a deep golden light filled the room. It was the soft, un-blinding light of Illylithium, only this time the light was more beautiful, more pure like rays of sunshine forged into matter.

"This orb is Gaia's fury," so explained Hermione. "This is a forbidden form of Illylithium, for it is this kind of Illylithium that affects the very balance nature itself. The lesser Illylithium orbs, the orbs such as the ones I or Tika use, to fight or conceal our true forms, these are but trifles in the craft. But the orbs of power, orbs such as this are deadly to both the planet and the user. This sage stone will give its wilder control over the very element of Earth itself. I ask that one of you take this orb and use it against the Hoplites tomorrow."

Silence proceeded Hermione's words, All looked upon the orb, fear evident in their eyes, even Tika, whose body was wrought with many hundreds of trifle stone, feared the power of Gaia's fury.

"Isn't Illylithium poisonous to humans?" asked Severus of their female leader a trace of caution evident in his voice. Hermione smiled gently.

"The lesser orbs are so." Confirmed Hermione, "For their craft is tainted and un-pure. But this orb is pure Illylithium from the core of mother earth herself. The orb itself is not dangerous to humans, but still its power may become too great for even an Elf's body to contain."

"I'll take it!" so stated Skylar stepping forth out of the circle. "I'll proudly hold one of the great orbs."

Murmurs issued between the company, Hermione's eyes met Skylar's own.

"You do so of your own free will, my friend. I do not press such a thing upon you?"

"No, Lady Hermione, I will proudly carry Gaia's fury." Skylar spoke, drawing himself up proudly and rolling back his sleeve to accept the great orb.

"So it shall be."

At her words all except for Skylar left the room. All gathered beyond the door of the chamber, hoping to hear some sign, so sense of understanding to pass to them. Anticipation and curiosity grew to fear as from within the chamber their came a terrible, agonised scream of pain. The cry issued, seemed to stem not from the throat but the very soul of Skylar. All hearts beyond the chamber clenched at the thought of the young man's fate.


	27. Heartache

Heartache

Together the numbers of the suppressed congregated within the streets of the east side of Bale. They walked, chanted, some armed with crude weaponry: planks of wood, metal batons or other urban armaments. Each was garbed, not in the conformational grey coverall uniforms; instead free apparel adorned many of the growing masses frames.

The company, led by Vaart and Hermione together emerged from their protective depths to join the fray, themselves blending inconspicuously with a collection of rallying protesters. Many cried obscenities to the sky, returned in heart by their fellows. Slowly the pockets of humanity formed a collective unity, proceeded like a congregated army out onto the western district of Bale; each daring to trudge the unspoken boundary line separating them from the conformational citizens.

Alarms sounded with the passing of the slum dwellers. The Spyfs amassed within the sky, above them transmitting visual messages of the slowly advancing force to The Soul. The orbs hovered above the advancing citizens like vultures. Slum dwellers tossed debris and armaments towards the floating orbs, only to have their attempts at defiance dismissed by the maneuverability of the devices.

Around them the crystal city of Bale trembled with fright. Homeowners shielded themselves behind the steel glass of their walls; buildings bombarded with projectiles, so the uncouth army pass them by. Abuse was issued towards the crowd from the safety of upstairs windows. Harry's eye caught Hermione's, threading her hand in his, lightly she squeezed comfortingly. It was clear she was used to these protest rallies and it was the touch of her hand which helped quell his rising rage.

"Save," whispered Hermione her voice reaching him from across the din. Harry breathed deeply his eyes scanning every face, every flash of blade, the crash of glass. Slowly the great square drew in upon the outskirts of his vision. The square was visible thanks to the lion monolith which dominated the peak of the line of hoplites before it. A contingency of warriors stood locked in phalanx, eight abreast and twelve men deep, prevented the march of protesters from entering the square.

At the sight of the guards the shouts and curses grew in volume and intensity. Debris and tools were thrown, ricocheting harmlessly from helmet or shield of the guard. As one the hoplites drew aside their shields, readied their dories for battle and defense.

A line of protesters charged the guard, lashing out with their feet, bodies crashed into the wall of wood, steel and muscle. The Hoplites scarcely moved. The sound of slaughter began to sound. Spears past effortlessly into the forms of the protesters, blood sprayed, flew, misted the air with every thrust. Harry drew back, adrenalin beginning to race. Memories began to stir, the cries of the fallen interweaving with the sound of the innocents of whom he himself had slain. He saw himself, not as a defer of the System, but as in enforcer of its will. His gaze fell to the fallen, some quivering in their final breaths, others screaming in agony, some clearly dead. He froze.

"The ceremony is already taking place!" so sounded a voice, faint and distant across the haze of emotion which had consumed Harry. A collective ripple of dread caught at the hearts of the company as all hope turned to Skylar.

"Please!" pleaded Hermione of her friend. True fear grew evident within the eyes of the young man, his touch coming to the leather gauntlet which covered his Illylithium orb. He hesitated for a moment, his face once so handsome, now sunken, his body still weak from its merger with the fury of Gaia.

Skylar stalled, knowing of the consequences that awaited them should they fail in this attack. Raising his arm he closed his eyes, a look of dread and fear eminent on his face. Skylar focused his newly acquired power. The very earth itself began to tremble, shake, rocking the very foundations of the towering glass super structures. It started with tiny, innocent rents, Skylar hesitant to use the full force of his strength. A cry tore from a friend, an agonized cry of pain, forcing Skylar into making the next step.

The Earth shook, trembled, rent into a great cataclysm of force. Buildings toppled, shattered in a rain of crystal shards. The hoplite phalanx toppled, Tika, seeing her chance, rushed away from the party, charged into the square, her body surrounded by a vivid, emerald green nimbus. Gaia's fury rent the earth, swallowed the once proud metropolis of Bale. Skylar, heart sunken gazed in horror at the destruction he had wrought.

"What…? What have I…?"

"The Champion!" shouted Hermione to anyone who could hear her over the devastation.

Harry and Hermione clambered to their feet followed after Tika, weapons drawn, treed unsteady beneath the meeting of tectonic plates beneath the earth. Fear and dread halted their advancement. The sight of Tika greeted them, herself suspended in midair, throat constricted as if great hands were suffocating the youngling. Both she and the System Champion engaged in a duel of wills. Both Harry and Hermione could feel the conflicting pressures of two magic users locked in combat. The champion of the System held out an out thrust hand, aura shimmering a deep, vivid red, while Tika's shone her own weak, fading sheen.

"She's fading!" snapped Hermione drawing her sword and charging the champion. The champion's gaze, face shielded behind a burnished helmet of plate steel, turned to face Hermione. From the warrior there pulsated an invisible ripple of energy. The force struck Hermione with might, lifting the elven maiden free from her feet, her form crashing to the broken surface of the square, crumpled, agonized, defeated. Harry rushed to Hermione's side as the System Champion rounded on Tika. The younglings breathing labored, her body agonized with pain.

The Champion gazed at Tika, eyes hidden behind a plate helmet, energy growing, deep, malevolent forced more power into the destruction of Tika. Tika's eyes streamed with tears, her free hand feeling the arcane power which tightened her airway. The System's weapon, the sword of Aluna hung suspended, encased within a cage of green energy. Tika's body grew limp, an aura of flicking silver light surrounded the youngling, her back arched. A ghostly apparition, silver, unshaped rushed from the youngling, encased the sword of Aluna. Tika grew limp, faded, collapsed.

"What has happened?" snapped the high Vennegoor; himself knelt behind his masked champion. Hermione, willowed, gazed towards Tika, the cage of emerald energy now fused with silver about the champion's prize. The burnished, silver strewn warrior turned to face Harry and Hermione. Standing, his wealth of raven hair caught at his back, Harry stood over Hermione, the warrior star raised in defiance and protection, himself a barrier between his friends and death.

"Stand aside," stated the champion voice muffled behind the steel helmet.

"Never!" snapped Harry forcefully, "I will not allow you to harm my friends,"

"Stand aside, I have no wish to harm you, Sail,"

Harry's heart plummeted into a tarn of ice at the use of his pet name. He lowered his guard, disbelief paramount.

"No, not you!" his voice cracked with grief as slowly the Champion removed the helmet which shielded her visage. Slowly, across the battlefield, standing before him, Champion of the System. Was Ginny.


	28. Act of Betrayal

_**Act of Betrayal**_

"You came for me," Anchor's voice was gentle, as sweet as Sail remembered, but tarnished by a feverish, fanatical tone. Her eyes, once so soft, bore wild, feral traits of madness, her smile cruel, dark and malevolent. "Come, be with me,"

"Anchor?" Harry gasped, his words tarnished by a intense sense of shock. "I... I don't understand,"

"My eyes are open, Sail," hissed Anchor, opening her arms as if to embrace the world, "At last I finally feel whole, no longer am I the sort after prize of greed driven farm boys, finally I mean so much more. I have traits, hidden powers only the System can help me reveal. With us at their helm we shall rule Styria. Join us my love, be with me, follow me, welcome the System as you once did, together we shall be unstoppable."

A sickening disbelief knotted Harry's gut, he raised his sword in defiance of the words of his beloved.

"I'll never return to the System." Harry forced ice into his words, his very heart wrought with disgust at his loves new allegiance. "I stand for freedom; my sword is Lady Granger's,"

Anchor lowered her gaze, as if Harry's words had physically wounded her. The gaze which drew across her face was twisted, dark, Harry knew she too now bore the taint of Ilean. Ginny raised her arm to the heavens, great billows of wind issued from across the sky.

"Then, my love, you and your new friend shall die at my hand,"

A roar shattered the ambiance, the sky a warring eddy of thunderheads, Harry charged the woman he loved. Lady Ginny, his Anchor, drew her ceremonial weapon, her true prize still denied to her by the sacrifice of Tika.

Together both lovers set to a series of blows. Harry thrust, parried, his blows met with the ring of steel on steel. Harry made to hack at Anchor's side, the parry of his love almost lazy in her efforts. His own deflection of her attack came a second too late.

The ceremonial blade severed his right side, sword slicing through garb, his coat of mail rent effortlessly. Harry drew back, his free hand pressed to the wound as a cry of pain escaped his lips. Blood seeped through his fingers, hot, steaming in the winter wind, he gazed towards Anchor her skill, the twisted vision of her face, each alien to his memories of her. Once more the terrible roar sounded across the heavens.

Harry's gaze drew towards the sky where slowly, from out of the darkness there materialized the form of a great beast. Thunderheads gathered from amidst the heavens, the monster streaking through the air with the trail of a falling star. It was here that Harry came to understand. So came the force of the great elemental dragon came. The great dragon crashed to earth in a ripple, opening a crater within the earth. Its scales were a stark, artic white, glistening with the hue of eternal ice, its eyes deep, depthless obsidian.

A great wind issued from the towering beast, laced with streams of lightning, the energy battering, ripped through the earth with its force. Ginny, regaining herself, readied her weapon, standing tall, defiant, powerful. The crash of battle ensued as Anchor charged, attacked the towering behemoth. The aftershock of the two meeting titans thundered across the ruination of Bale city. Harry, shock, fear weakening his stance felt a cry of concern escape his lips. The crash of the two resounded from their meeting. Harry, Hermione and the fallen form of Tika, each were buffeted back upon the aftershock, upon the meeting clash between Ginny and the dragon.

Harry's head struck the wall of a fallen building, a shard of steel glass falling, entering his side. Pain clouded all other emotions, the world grew hazed, his last vision, his last emotions that of fear as he sighted the rippling air around the dragon as the monster engaged his beloved Ginny.

Harry saw little else as he slipped into a pain wrought oblivion.


	29. Take to the Sky

_**Take to the Sky**_

Snatches of the failed strike upon the System continued to drift into the forefront of Harry's mind: Skylar's incredible use of power to tear the city of Bale asunder. The sight of Tika lying unconscious at the foot of the Systems Champion, Hermione buffeted away with an incredible surge of power. These however were all but trifles to the most painful memory of all: the revelation that the System champion was his own dear Ginny.

All flashed before Harry's imaginings like the flicking luminescence of starlight. His body was cold, chill like one feels when lade upon sheet ice. Had he passed on? Was he at this very moment adrift amidst the endless stream of eternity? No… now that he came to realise… he felt pain, a sore, aching pain seeping through him. Surely if he had passed on then he would have been saved from such agonies?

Slowly, his acute sensations began to return to him, felt the roughness of stone at his back, softened slightly by a thin layer of blankets. The gentle trickle of water seeped from sources unknown, sounded strident against the still silence which surrounded him. Upon opening his eyes Harry observed nothing but pitch darkness. Bewildered he lifted himself to his haunches, a surge of pain raced through him.

The race of agony ripped through him, evident upon a single side. Harry gasped, touched his side, felt the sticky wetness of a poetise clotting his wound. On shaky legs, filled with agony Harry staggered to his feet, feeling his way through the darkness. He sighted faint rays of sunlight issuing from a portal at the end of a stone cavern.

Following the rock-side, his hand pressed against the wall, Harry stumbled out into harsh sunlight. His eyes stung from the glare. Hazily so he looked out across the valleys which stretched out before him, himself standing atop a steep mountain plateau. The valleys before him were majestic, stretched on in a seemingly endless expanse, snow-capped greenery unveiled before him, sights the tips of trees and frost strewn rivers stalled the breath. Harry shuddered as a chill wind caressed the naked flesh of his torso. Confusion reeled him, how had he come to be so high? The weakness of his body felt evident as he observed his height, he couldn't have climbed, could he? The answer revealed itself suddenly.

He saw it at a distance, a vast, immense something soaring through the air at a tremendous speed. Harry drew back instinctively as it drew in ever closer, enough for Harry to sight its angled head and broad wingspan. Suddenly something brushed against his consciousness, something vast and powerful, soothed by a sweet gentleness, a gentleness he recognised. It was the gentleness that touched him the most, which he recognised as Mistress Luna.

"Do not fear us, Harry," spoke Luna, her sweet voice seemingly emanating across the expanse, heard by he and he alone. The dragon soared high overhead, beat the plateau with its wings, the billowing wind kicking up eddies of dust, rock and snow. The monster crashed down to the rock surface. Slides of snow fell from the mountain side. The dragon, the monster, so vast that it splintered the very granite of the mountainside, stood before him, the impact of its landing shaking Harry from his stance trembling, humbled before the elemental beast.

Harry glanced at Mekarth; white scales adorned an almost human torso, form and hide. Its arms thickly muscled, legs a wide as an ancient oak. But it was the eyes of the creature that were so captivating. Eyes the vivid shade of darkness, flecked with the streaks, shades of storms, thunderheads, lightning, felt the air crack with thunder from a clear winter sky. Harry swallowed, standing in the presence of the ancient storm god. Harry lowered himself in a clumsy bow. Never had he felt so insignificant, knew that if he were not to show such respect, then he would risk the wrath of the elemental beast. The dragon nodded its monstrous head, stood upon its hind quarters, its massive arms folded across its hulking torso.

"Harry!" chimed Mistress Luna's sweet voice, her tone sounded from somewhere amidst monsters mass. Mekarth reached around from its back, plucked something small, delicate. Gently the monster cradled the fragile something in its clawed hands. The dragon stooped, lowered its hands to the surface of the mountain. With the opening of its hands so was revealed Mistress Luna, resting, cradled within the palm of the beast. She hailed Harry. Luna smiled gently stepping forth to place a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

"There is more to me than simple divining talents," so spoke Luna, speaking to the confusion she saw in his eyes. "Legend speaks of me via many names: Great Evoker, alpha and omega, High Mladris. I am the vessel of the great dragon, who you know as lady Seraphina. It is us who took up the fight at Bale after your injury."

"Bale…?" Harry breathed, remembering the shock he had felt when the dragon had appeared. "What happened to…?"

Harry's voice trailed off, the sight of Luna's sorrowful visage enough for him to understand. In a pain filled voice she explained how she saw how the System had them beaten at the Great Square. How Tika had used a soul pact to imprison the sword of Aluna from the System champion.

"The System have evoked the power of the tainted Illylithium. This is how she could match the power of Tika and overwhelm her. The power of the tainted orbs are great, your Ginny herself was able to stand against my powers and the force the elemental dragon. I scarcely saved your life; if we had stayed we all would have died."

"But then… what of the others?" Harry asked of the Evoker. "What of Tika and Hermione? What is known of them?"

"I'm afraid I know very little." said Luna gently, taking his hand in hers. "I did my best to save you. The System's champion is more powerful than even I would have expected. You were the only one we could save."

"We can't just leave everyone to the mercy of the System." so stated Harry, his tone harsh. Luna nodded and stepped towards her forsworn spirit.

"Come Harry," spoke Luna, as the great beast lifted her once more onto her back. "We shall search for our courageous comrades. We shall go west, to the elves. They can provide us with the knowledge to help us with our quest."

Harry nodded as he stepped towards the mouth of the cave. Within moments, garbed and armed, Harry mounted the back of the dragon with assistance from the behemoth. Harry came to station himself behind the Evoker, his hands threading securely about her waist. Luna glanced back, offered him a smile.

The beat of wings evoked another cry of pain from the mountain. The dragon plummeted from the plateau, forcing a torrent of air to beat against its rider's forms. The monster levelled, its scales glistening like jewels upon his hide, carrying its riders off in fellowship. Harry pressed his body closer to Luna's, the sands of fate still seeping. A gaping agony welled deep within his heart at the thought of what was to come as together Harry and Luna took to the sky.


End file.
